


Coins on My Eyes

by Indybaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, Body Horror, Disability, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV John Watson, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Plague, Recovery, Sign Language, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:04:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4170537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock spent nights lying awake, listening to the rustling of John’s hands on the bedcovers. The dull thumps of John’s head against the headboard. The rhythmic grinding of his teeth. The soft, hungry sounds of his mouth and throat.</i>
</p><p>There is an unknown infection rapidly spreading through London, fear, unspoken love, dead who cannot die... and a way for them to come back. Post-zombie AU!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (Mycroft)

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: background character deaths, completely made up science and medicine, mentions of euthanasia and suicide. 
> 
> Thanks go to Pickles7437 for the beta and Jie_Jie for Brit-picking, you are both fabulous! *g*

 

 

Mycroft struggles to consciousness. There’s a rush of white noise ringing in his ears. Other sounds layering over it, the sullen beep of a heart monitor, the echoing sound of footsteps in a hallway, giving the sense of a hollow, old building. And then, startlingly close by, an intake of breath that Mycroft knows to the depth of his bones is Sherlock’s. 

His eyelids are dry and pasted to each other. He forces them open but his vision is blurred, it’s as if he is watching from under water, just catching patches of light. He has to blink, slowly, again and again, to bring the room into focus. The outline of Sherlock. His face. The lines around his mouth, the hint of stubble. Sherlock’s eyes are skittering over his face. _Extreme worry._

Mycroft feels a sudden, rolling wave of fear. He knows what happened. He knows _what he is_. There’s no saying what he’s done already, because there is no control over this, no way to know if he... Is he tied up? Is he contained? He sucks in a breath. 

Sherlock seems avid, he’s recording his slightest movements, but he’s keeping his distance, too. _Smart_. 

Mycroft tries to will his mouth into words, but his teeth feel foreign in his mouth. The corners of his lips are torn, he presses into them with his tongue and tastes copper. His throat is raw and hot. He scrapes it, gathers a breath. “Sherlock.” It’s a dry whisper. 

There’s obvious relief in Sherlock’s face. “Yes.” 

Sherlock was not expecting him to recognise him. Not even that. So... Dear god. _He didn’t._ “What...” another swallow, “have you done?” 

Sherlock is pale, his eyes are red-rimmed from lack of sleep. He looks dreadful, but he looks at him straight on, “Found a way.” 

No. He died, he... _Anthea_. But the test cases all died or worse, one by one, hundreds of them, howling in pain. Mycroft saw them, he read the reports, he knows it’s unfathomable, scientifically impossible. He takes another breath. “How long?” 

Sherlock eyes him, gauging his reaction. “Eight days.” 

They didn’t have a cure a week ago, Mycroft is certain of it. What did they _do_? He looks down at his body. There’s some sort of pump taped to his chest. His limbs are still there, hands pale - incredibly pale actually, near-grey lying on the bedcover. He can’t see his legs. _Cure_ is hardly the context he needs to be thinking in here, Mycroft assumes, he’s more corpse than anything else. But his thoughts, he doesn’t feel slow, no diminished capacity? Would he know it if it was? He can move his neck a little, track Sherlock’s movements. 

“It worked.” Sherlock is pacing by the bed. He looks at him, and it’s all there, right on his face. He’s _glad_. He thinks he made the right decision. 

Mycroft focuses on his breathing. He seems to be able to control all of the muscles of his face independently, at least, and the rest is all transport anyway. _Panic is useless._ There are computers now that connect directly to the brain. Wheelchairs controlled by breath and mouth movements. It’s not out of the question to live like this. Mycroft pushes everything aside, tries for a disapproving scowl, and says, “And my explicitly stated opinion was to be ignored entirely, was it?” 

He’s irrationally relieved that he actually sounds like himself, or at least to his own ears. “There were no reasons to do this.” He knows, he considered them all. “To keep me like this. You knew my wishes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes are sharp on him. “Don’t care for your _wishes_.” He looks away, goes back to pacing by the bed. 

_Ah._ Sherlock didn’t want to let him go. 

Mycroft considers the thought for a moment, feels it sit heavy on his chest. Sherlock has been frantic in his grief. These last few months have hollowed him out, have made him grab on to every single morsel of hope, of evidence of a cure. 

If the roles would have been reversed... The tense string of _I would do all it takes_ when Mycroft even contemplates the question is enough. He would have done every single thing in his power to bring Sherlock back. But there wasn’t a way, a week ago. It was goodbye, it was never again, it was despair, and... “John?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not yet. They say he’s too _affected_.” 

Mycroft can do nothing but agree with whoever made that assessment. _Affected indeed._ He hasn’t seen John in weeks, but what he saw before that was enough to know that everything that John was died a long, long time ago. 

“So I need you to order them.” Sherlock seems determined. 

If he truly loved John he would have put a bullet through his head months ago, Mycroft thinks. The way John would have wanted it. But instead Sherlock did something much crueller. He kept him alive. 

_Because that’s how he cares._ Mycroft glances down at his own chest again. Apparently. 

“Mycroft...” Sherlock’s looking like a man that has nothing left to lose. He would beg if he thought that it would make a difference, Mycroft thinks. Sherlock would sink to his knees, for John. For a chance to bring him back. 

Fine then. Mycroft might have died, (is he - dead? Legally speaking?) but there are things he can do for Sherlock, still. It might be the last thing he ever does. 

He sighs. “Get me a phone.”

 

\---

 

_Day 1_

Mycroft sits in his office, holding a plain, grey folder in his hand. He’s not looking at it anymore. He has read the message within, and now he is simply holding it between his fingertips while the consequences of the words spin around in his mind and weigh him down as the implications hit. 

It made it to London. 

Unidentified female, mid-fifties. Flew into Heathrow from Tel Aviv this morning. She hid in a bathroom stall for several hours with a severe fever, and then broke free and went on a rampage. She bit dozens before airport security got to her. The whole airport is under quarantine and sealed off by the military right now. 

There are protocols in place for this exact scenario, of course. But there is already a case reported on the tube, and one on a city bus. It’s spreading through London’s traffic veins and it’s doing it fast. 

Mycroft doesn’t feel panic. Neither do most of the people he speaks to, that day. It’s a disease. Similar to rabies, perhaps. With a certain amount of research they should be able to fabricate a cure. With precautions they should be able to stem the spread. He simply deals with each case and call as they come, and most of the systems they have in place seem to be successful. But he sends a text to Sherlock anyway. _“Stay off the streets. MH.”_

Later, when the two hundredth case that day is reported, Mycroft adds, _“Please. MH.”_

 

_Day 31_

It’s late in the evening; the meeting with the prime minister (hiding out in his country home, _typical_ ) has run late. They’re out on the M25, driving through what should be clear territory. Anthea is sitting next to Mycroft on the back seat, typing away on her Blackberry. Replying to emails, ordering agents around, or playing Candy Crush, Mycroft’s not certain. 

Mycroft’s reading through files on pollution. There’s a new theory concerning the appearance of the infection, linking it to certain heavy metals. It doesn’t sound too credible, but he makes a point out of staying as informed as possible about all research being done. Too many of the doctors involved at the very beginning have become infected already. Too many scientists die every day; it’s halting the collection of reliable data. 

Mycroft mostly lives at the office, now. They review reports all day. Predict expected casualties and transmission rates, effects on the world economy, on the government. The numbers go from somewhat manageable all the way to end-day scenarios, and no one seems to agree on which one is more likely. It’s nothing like any other infectious disease they’ve encountered before. Nothing like any catastrophic event they ever planned for. It’s not Ebola, measles, or anthrax. 

The infected survive. Or they keep on going - living isn’t the word, exactly. 

The media are having the time of their lives of course, continuous coverage; they’re calling it ‘The Plague,’ and run tag lines that read ‘The end in sight?’ and ‘What did we do to deserve this?’ 

There’s some looting, but they manage to stay on top of that. The police force has organised civil volunteers, the military jumped in. People turn to faith, as short-sighted and narrow-minded as that is, but most of them quite simply carry on. Stiff upper lip. Go to work, do what you need to. 

Mycroft’s phone buzzes, and he checks it, a faint touch of worry playing under his skin when he sees Sherlock’s number. _“Found an entire family faking infection today. SH.”_

Mycroft smiles lightly. He can imagine Sherlock’s disappointment at that just fine. He’s considering typing out a reply, when the driver suddenly brakes. 

The cause is obvious. Three of them, infected, right in the middle of the road. Advancing on them. 

Their driver - MI5, Mycroft doesn’t know his name, only that he’s protection as well on days like this - calmly stops the car, takes a gun from the glove box, and cocks it. 

He opens the window a small amount, aims, and shoots. The shot reverberates in the car. 

Again. One infected is down. The next one seems to be confused as to whether to advance on their car, or to try and eat the fallen one. The third one is a child, with large, bright blue eyes. 

Their driver steps out, and uses his opened door as cover. There’s a shot, a short pause, then two more. He steps back in, closes the door, and hits the gas, swerving around the corpses lying on the road. 

When he looks to his side, Mycroft can see Anthea crouched on the back seat, holding a small handgun, looking out the back window. She normally keeps it hidden by a strap on the side of her thigh, Mycroft’s known about that for years. He never approved, in fact. 

He’s glad of it now. 

After that incident, Anthea switches to carrying an extra gun in a police-style belt that she worries distorts the line of her jackets (it does, slightly - they all must make sacrifices, though) and a switchblade tucked into her shoe. 

Mycroft acquires a small, reliable semi-automatic handgun for himself. Mummy already owns a shotgun, so he gifts her a revolver for in her handbag. They’re no reason for decorum when there is a genuine need for self-defence, Mycroft tells himself. 

He sends a brand new, registered army Browning to Sherlock as well, to match John’s. Mycroft believes he might appreciate the symbolism.

 

\---

 

_Now_

Sherlock gets his phone from his pocket, enters the number and steps close enough to hold the mobile to Mycroft’s ear. 

The side of Sherlock’s finger presses to Mycroft’s cheek as he holds the phone. It’s not a caress, merely a practicality, but Mycroft can feel the warmth of it like a brand. Sherlock shouldn’t. He might still be contagious. Or worse, dangerous. He doesn’t say anything. 

It takes a while before the phone connects. There are remains of plastic sheeting and bio-hazard signs all around his bed. Neon lights flicker overhead. One ring, two. Then there’s a familiar voice on the other end. “Yes?” Anthea. 

She sounds uncharacteristically hesitant. Mycroft hesitates as well, not entirely sure on how to continue. “Agent.” _I appear to have been raised from the dead._

Also, _we will need to have a conversation_. 

But for now, “I need John Watson, currently residing in Baker Street,” Mycroft checks with Sherlock, who nods, “to be brought in and receive treatment.” 

Anthea seems to have been expecting the order. “We’ve considered it, sir. But at this point there is no reason to think that someone like that...” She takes a breath, rephrases. “We don’t believe that it will be feasible this long after exposure.” 

As he thought, then. Mycroft glances at Sherlock. Catches the naked hope on his face. “My brother insists.” _And so do I._

“Even if they are successful, sir, he might not like the... result.” Mycroft privately agrees that the thought of waking someone like that up and checking whether there’s anything left to call human is repulsive. But so is his own state right now, no reason to think otherwise. 

These things should not be attempted, Mycroft thinks again. But he catches Sherlock’s look, as well. Sherlock won’t quit until he has done this. He won’t give up on John until he is absolutely, unequivocally certain that there is nothing left of him to save. So it might be better for both of their sakes to find out now than to drag it out any longer. It has already gone on long past sanity. Mycroft could make a judgement call here, forbid him to try, but Sherlock would simply find another way. Something more dangerous than here. “Do it anyway.” 

Anthea sighs. “I will send a team over to collect him.” And then, “Glad you’re back, sir.”

She’s hung up before he can formulate a reply.

Sherlock takes his hand away and pockets the phone. “Ditto, brother dear.” It’s said quickly and without much emotion, but Mycroft knows from the flash of warmth in his eyes that he means it.

It’s foolish, what Sherlock’s hoping for, even he should be able to see this. But then who isn’t a fool for love, Mycroft thinks sourly as he watches Sherlock’s back, the swirl of his coat as he rounds the corner. 

Sherlock certainly has been. 

 

\---

 

_Day 68_

In response to the gifted gun, or maybe just because he feels like it, John starts texting more regularly. He seems to have no scruples left about keeping Mycroft informed of how Sherlock is doing, at least health-wise, nor himself. Most of John’s texts are along the lines of _‘Still not bitten.’_ and _‘Sherlock is being an arse, also, not dead.’_ but Mycroft makes certain to reply to every single message. He appreciates them, more than John realises, perhaps. 

John has taken a job in a hastily-erected field clinic in central London. Sherlock doesn’t talk about it, but suddenly his texts become much more frequent as well. He’s worried, Mycroft knows. 

Sherlock saunters into Mycroft’s office one day, flops down on the sofa and says, “Bored.” It takes several hours of verbal sparring, nagging and tea-drinking before he leaves. 

It’s Mycroft’s favourite memory of that month. 

After the third infection incident among an agent, MI6 reconvenes to a secret location underground, and most of them sleep there, too. Uncomfortable nights on hotel mattresses in emptied offices. No rest for the wicked, or government officials in times of crisis. 

Mycroft gets food brought in, of course. It’s a little harder to get his favourite dishes than it used to be, but not impossible. A little creature comfort is a dire necessity; the day-to-day bureaucracy of a country on the verge of collapse is a hefty weight to manage. 

Still, he can’t say that he doesn’t enjoy it. 

It’s one thing to influence decisions when those decisions are about terrorism prevention, or which election to rig, or which dictator to support. It’s another to be standing at the head of a nation in an historical crisis. Mycroft’s not much for speeches, and neither are his colleagues, _thank the lord_ , but at times it feels like it. A moment that should have words surrounding it. 

He signs the forms allowing infected to be forcefully removed from their homes, and thinks about that signature, and the effect it will have. He lobbies against the widespread use of firearms - it would be foolish to trust to general public with them. He agrees that medical experimentation on live subjects is a necessity. It’s one step at a time, one morally ambiguous decision after the next and it’s all without precedent, yet it’s easy to see what the nation needs. 

They run advertisements likening this to a war. _Keep calm and report the infected. Our country stands united_ , that sort of thing. It mostly works. 

There is extensive debate on how to deal with them all over the world, of course. From philosophers to politicians, from world leaders to the Sun front page. Is an infected person less human, and at what point does he cease to be completely? Can basic human rights be violated if it protects the community at large? Most say yes, of course, survival always outweighs ethics in the end, Mycroft isn’t surprised by that. 

After the hospitals are full, and after various other repurposed buildings are filled beyond capacity, they make large, centralised camps for the infected out in the woodlands, away from central London. It reminds people uncomfortably of genocide, seeing them all rounded up and shipped off, but there are few options left. The debates are getting fiercer. It’s not cost-efficient to keep them alive. It might even be callous to let them live on like that. Public opinion shifts towards euthanasia. _Have pity on the poor infectious dead._

Mycroft has seen them several times now, the infected. Hidden away in research facilities, strapped to their beds, drooling and groaning. Their faces contorted into some open-mouthed expression, geared towards the doctors standing over them. To Mycroft’s reflection, in the glass. Trying to _eat_ him. 

He has seen their images on TV before, of course, from the car, but still it is shockingly disgusting to observe them up close. Greedily, single-mindedly reaching for sustenance, for gratification. Humanity at its worst.

It’s not difficult to despise them. 

 

\---

 

_Now_

Now that Mycroft’s alone in his hospital room it really sinks in, what happened. 

He tries to move his hand. Nothing. Then focuses on a single finger, wills his muscles to contract and move, but they do not. His arms are horrid to look at, but he’s fascinated despite himself. They’re grey and lifeless. His veins have disappeared. His nails are longer than he likes them, they must have kept growing. His face feels as if it has stubble on it, as well. Ghastly. 

Mycroft files it away as data, and studies the machine next. The whoosh of the pump is obvious in the quiet. He’s dressed in some sort of hospital gown that’s open in the front. He can see clearly it’s not just some external type of pacemaker; it seems to be actually pumping blood straight into his body. There’s a whole collection of bags hanging above his head as well, platelets, antibiotics, and other ones he can’t make out. One with glass tubing, instead of plastic. It has a warning on it never to handle it without gloves and a variety of death and danger symbols. Another bag appears to be _radioactive_. 

The lights on the ceiling are very bright, and they emit a soft hum. They’re old, must be a mid-century building. High ceiling, a repurposed hospital perhaps, but mental institution might be more likely, judging by the colour of vapid green on the walls. It was believed to have a calming effect, up until the seventies. He should still be in London, then. 

Mycroft closes his eyes again once they start burning and tries to get his mind in order. It’s an unusually confusing muddle of thoughts and impressions. He will have to prove his mental acuity to everyone he comes into contact with from now on out, he’s aware. So what is the last thing he remembers that he can be absolutely certain of? Did he sign those last requisition forms? What would be today’s date; will the Chinese elections have been cancelled? 

After a while he can hear footsteps in the hallway, and his door being opened. He smells the wave of antiseptic and sweat before a harried-looking doctor moves past the plastic sheeting surrounding his bed. She’s wearing a mouth mask, and thick gloves, and she has another dose of whatever is slowly dripping into his IV. 

“Doctor,” Mycroft acknowledges, calmly. 

She starts, and looks him over with incredulity. 

Was he not supposed to be awake yet? Sherlock certainly seemed to expect it. Is it just the fact that he’s verbal perhaps? The most pressing question first: “Am I expected to regain motor control?” Looking at his limbs it seems to be entirely unlikely that that’s even a possibility, but he would rather like to be certain so he can start planning accordingly. 

The doctor blinks. “Um.” 

“I would think that’s a rather significant question.” Mycroft can feel irritation start to rise. When she still doesn’t speak, he adds, “One that I am entitled to know the answer to.” 

She’s really looking at him now, giving him her full attention. “Can you feel anything at all?” When he tells her he has sensation in his face, she seems fascinated. 

Apparently, he’s the first one. 

 

\---

 

_Day 105_

Mycroft is in the middle of a meeting with half a dozen members of parliament when Anthea walks in, phone plastered to her ear, saying, “Sir.” 

For that first sickening, terrible second Mycroft is certain it’s Sherlock. That he got himself infected. 

But then she goes on and says, “John Watson has been bitten while treating a patient. He reported it straight away, and he’s been admitted to the quarantine at St. Bart’s.” And “Your brother... he’s holding a gun to the head of one of the doctors in charge, demanding to see him.” 

Mycroft sighs.

He’s not surprised. 

That doesn’t make it any better. 

Mycroft leaves the meeting, arranges a light escort of Anthea and three agents, and goes to the hospital. En route, he calls Sherlock’s phone. No answer. No doubt he’s too busy making death threats to pick up his phone and ask for his _easily accessible_ help. Typical. 

After a thought, Mycroft tries John’s number. It rings nearly ten times, before there’s a shuffle, and John’s breathing, not saying anything. 

Is he losing his mind already, slipping past conversation? Better keep it simple. “Is your current location St. Bart’s hospital’s quarantine ward?” 

“Yes.” John says, weary now. “Look, I don’t know how you know, but I haven’t...” he pauses. “I haven’t told him yet, okay? Sherlock doesn’t know.”

“Would that be why he is currently staging a shootout on a lower floor, demanding to see you?” Mycroft asks dryly. Sherlock probably had people in place to alert him of this exact thing happening, Mycroft thinks. He would. 

“Well, he can’t. See me again. Can he?” John is clearly in the anger stage of realising what happened to him. What will happen. “Not when I’m _bloody infected!_ ” 

Was he careless? Does he blame himself? “With the necessary precautions, I don’t see why not.” Mycroft’s not insensitive. He can imagine exactly what Sherlock’s demands will be, and he will make them happen. A hazmat suit, contained space, it will take some convincing and bending of procedure, but it’s far from unfeasible. Sherlock will get his goodbye. 

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I want to.” John says, sounding defiant. “Look him in the eye and...” he trails off. 

Mycroft frowns. John doesn’t mean that. He’s obviously upset, who wouldn’t be, but he’ll want to see Sherlock before this is over, Mycroft does not doubt it. “Sherlock won’t stop until he can see you.” They both know that’s true. Unless he gets someone to drug him, take him out until John is disposed of. But no, too much. Sherlock will want to be there. He might need to, to accept it. 

“Yeah.” John laughs, mirthlessly. 

There’s a pause. 

They’re two streets away from the hospital. 

John takes a breath. “Didn’t want to die today.” 

“I believe no one does.” Mycroft says it cautiously. He feels somewhat ill at ease. Sherlock should be the one on the line right now, there won’t be much time left. Hours, perhaps. He doesn’t know John that well, nor the proper words to this situation. 

But John goes on, “I woke up this morning, and I thought, oh, sunshine, that’s nice. And Sherlock was...” John’s voice catches. “Sherlock was being a dick as always, growing mould in the sink and... There’s infected eyeballs in the oven, did you know that? He’s experimenting on them now, because they’re ‘juicier, that’s interesting John!’ So I told him off, and I came to work, and...” He falls silent, suddenly. 

Mycroft waits, allows John to say what he wants to. When the silence drags on he says, “You have saved hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives doing what you did.” Surely that must count for something. They’ll be there soon.

John makes a disapproving noise. “Fuck it. Does that matter? Really?” 

Mycroft does not have an answer to that. It wouldn’t to him, personally, but he always assumed John to be of a more humanitarian nature. Although perhaps in this moment there is truly nothing that would matter. There is a police car parked in front of the hospital with glowing lights. They better not have arrested Sherlock yet, otherwise there will be even more paperwork to deal with. “I am nearing the hospital.” 

“Right.” John says. He takes a breath. “Well, tell him to stop shooting and come up here, then.” 

“I will.” Mycroft says. “And...” He’ll send Sherlock, but he won’t go into John’s room himself, obviously. The risk might be minimal, but he has no intention to infringe on what little time they have left. He should say his own words now. “It was both a pleasure and an honour to know you, John Watson.” 

John laughs in disbelief, “ _You’re_ saying goodbye to me? _You_?”

However callous John might think him, the thought of losing him truly is unpleasant. John was useful, the best thing that ever happened to Sherlock, absolutely, and Mycroft has grown almost fond of him throughout the years. He can understand an aversion to sentiment at a moment like this, though. “Not if you don’t wish to.” They’ve arrived. He steps out of the car. He can pretend that this is simply a regular phone call, if it will make John feel more at ease, certainly. 

“No, I don’t... It’s... You’ve helped, a lot. And Sherlock, right, god, don’t let him...” John’s voice wavers, “Don’t let him do anything stupid.” He takes a breath. 

“I will do my best, John.” The words catch something in his chest. That will be a difficult promise to keep, and they both know it. 

“I am entering the lobby right now.” It contains a decontamination unit, several frazzled-looking doctors, police with their guns drawn, and oh, Sherlock, holding his gun to the head of a senior doctor. 

Mycroft rolls his eyes, and gives a signal to his agents. They diffuse the situation quickly. Anthea goes to round up everyone involved and ensure that they don’t press charges, and Mycroft walks towards Sherlock. He looks like he’s ready to actually shoot the whole room to pieces. It’s not acting, he’s really that tense. No wonder they called him. 

“Sherlock is here,” Mycroft says to John. “Currently holding an unloaded gun to the head of,” he checks, “Immunology.” 

“Unloaded?” The man asks with a shaky, relieved voice, at the same time as Sherlock’s indifferent, “Came here to spoil the fun, did you?” Sherlock lets go and the man half-falls, half-scampers away. 

“I did,” Mycroft says, trying to impart something compassionate and calming in his tone. _I know, brother mine. I know._

“Is that him?” John asks, on the phone. 

“Yes,” Mycroft says. 

He hands it to Sherlock, who grabs it readily. _“John?”_

Mycroft turns away, and lets them talk. He arranges a hazmat suit for Sherlock, and an escort to make certain he doesn’t break protocol, then watches Sherlock go. 

Mycroft follows him to the right hallway, sits down, and prepares to wait. He can be spared for some hours. 

After a while, he can hear them _laughing_ , all the way down the hall. Mycroft has work with him of course, a tablet, but it makes it hard to focus. To know that Sherlock is in there, doing or saying whatever he can, just to make John laugh one last time. Then one more. One moment longer. 

It takes six hours before John is non-verbal, the doctors give him periodical updates, but even then Sherlock stays, so Mycroft does, too. 

When he finally walks out, when it’s done, Sherlock doesn’t seem surprised to see him sitting there. Mycroft doesn’t know if that’s because Sherlock just expects him to be here at times like this, whether he sees him as something akin to gravity, a thoughtless certainty to fall back on. Or because seeing John like that has robbed him of surprise altogether. 

Sherlock has cried, it’s obvious from his eyes. He looks... empty. “I’m taking him home.” 

Did John ask to die in Baker Street, perhaps? “If you want to...” Mycroft pauses, “...make certain this ends a certain way, that can be arranged.” There are plenty of doctors who will understand such a request, and if not, he will convince them to. 

“What?” Sherlock seems confused. “No, I’m not going to _kill_ him!”

Then what? Take him home and pretend nothing happened? “You can’t be planning to take care of him?” Mycroft can hear his voice echo disbelief. Sherlock has that determined set to his face Mycroft knows well, but the thought is ludicrous. John is dead, his brain is pulp, there’s nothing left but a nervous system and some impulses, and highly dangerous ones at that. “He’s dead, Sherlock. He’s gone!” He adds, quieter, “Surely you can see that.” 

“For now.” Sherlock says, stubbornly. 

Mycroft is stunned into silence. He should have foreseen this, perhaps, but he didn’t think Sherlock would be this _naive_. “There is no cure. He will not get better, if you take him home you will get to see him slowly decay and nothing more.” 

Sherlock looks at him evenly. “I’m taking him.” He means it. Every fibre of his body in that second does, and Mycroft knows it. 

So.

They move John to his old bedroom. Wrap him in a straightjacket, and attach him with a chain to the wall. 

It’s inhumane, it’s unethical, everyone involved in getting him there seems to transmit it in their eyes, their body language. _Let this man die. We are past keeping monsters in the attic - this isn’t right._

But Sherlock won’t be swayed. 

 

\---

 

_Now_

The doctors trickle in and out of Mycroft’s room. They mark the spot by his neck where sensation decreases, and then one where there is nothing left. They add more bags to the pump, and turn it up higher. 

By the next hour he can feel all the way to his chest. Not pain, so much, as just the awareness that it’s there. 

The doctors ah and hum and make notes, but it’s not hard to read all over their faces that they genuinely don’t know what is going to happen. They have no clue what they’re doing, and Mycroft silently curses Sherlock’s decision to submit him to this. He never wanted to be some sort of human experiment, to be poked and prodded and stared at. A _curiosity_. 

Not soon after that some light blue, spidery veins start standing out on his arms. He can feel down to his stomach. And then together with the awareness of his fingers and toes comes a horrible, intense sensation, like ants scurrying underneath his skin. It starts off as a vague itch, then pinpricks, turning into pure, undiluted stabbing. 

It makes him feel like an animal, caught in a trap, no way out, and all conscious thought slips into one, single thought. _Make it stop._ He knows that he screams. 

The last thing he remembers is the doctor’s eyes, above him. Their bickering voices. Doubt and uncertainty, they don’t know what this is, they don’t know why he’s even feeling anything at all, or how to sedate him without killing him. The last thing Mycroft hears is the female doctor’s voice as she says, “You know that might be all we get out of them, just a couple of hours of lucidity? That might be it.” And she doesn’t sound too surprised by it.

 _Sherlock_ , Mycroft thinks with horrible clarity. _You should have said goodbye._

There’s an injection, straight into the pump. And the world goes mercifully black. 

 

\---

 

_Day 139_

As the weeks go on, most of Mycroft’s time is spent dealing with the resistance. At first it’s nothing more than graffiti on storefronts and public buildings, calling to action, but it doesn’t take long for it to become more extreme. Some more break-outs, sudden bursts of the virus, and confidence in the government plummets. 

People take to the streets and riot. Most are simply scared. Scared of the increasingly growing numbers of infected, contained behind walls never meant to be prisons. It was always a matter of time before they couldn’t keep up. Before the public would band together in outrage, before they’d demand them _gone_. 

The government eradication program was written weeks ago, they were just waiting to implement it and start eliminating them on a large scale. Bullets aren’t cost-effective, plus the amount of biological waste left behind is rather troublesome. Gassing is ineffective, the infected do breathe, but something is lost on the transfer to tissues, all it does is melt their skin. So they will use the incinerators for waste disposal and burn them hundreds at a time. 

Mycroft doesn’t sleep the night he signs that order. 

The public’s response is divided, to say the least. They are scared of the infected, but these are also their parents, their children, their friends. They get protests from both sides, turned violent, turned _angry_. 

They try to keep it under control the best they can. They get a publicity team to spread research that underplays the chance of a cure in order to ensure support. It is the logical solution, but it’s one thing to convince the public that they’re doing them a favour, that they’re giving the infected a clean, fast death. It’s another to go there, and smell the dark smoke. Hear the gutting screams. 

It’s no longer just an echo of concentration camps, it’s that exact horror right here, on British soil. 

Mycroft showers multiple times but still he smells it, the smell in the back of his nose and sticking to his skin and hair like a second layer. 

Burning flesh. 

 

_Day 157_

When he reaches the point that he cannot see another file, he takes the afternoon off, and goes to Baker Street. 

Mrs. Hudson’s mouth tilts in a disapproving scowl when she answers the door. “Mister Holmes.” Mycroft could push her aside and walk past her, but it’s easier to let her have her say, he’s found. “My neighbour’s son was in one of those camps, you know.” 

Mycroft nods, feeling so tired, now. Old. “That is very unfortunate.” 

She glares at him for another moment, but then must take pity on what she sees, because she steps out of his way. “He’s upstairs. With…” 

Mycroft doesn’t need to be told where Sherlock is. 

The living room is abandoned. Without John it feels rather unlived in, as well. It’s moderately clean, but empty and dusty. There are no pillows on the sofa. No blankets, no books spread around. No offer of a cup of tea, as well. Mycroft takes the stairs to John’s room. 

Before this happened, he’d never been there. Now it’s the only place Sherlock will receive him. 

He knocks on the door, and after a brief shuffle, Sherlock unlocks it, then looks through the gap of the door to confirm who it is. He sighs, loudly. “Why are you here?” 

“I have no interest in confiscating and/or reporting John,” Mycroft says, a little exasperated. “I am here merely as your brother, as always.”

Sherlock opens the door and turns away. “Burning them now, are you? By the hundreds, how very _economic_.”

So he has heard as well. Mycroft doesn’t reply. 

It’s summer, but still the heating is turned up high inside the room, it is swelteringly hot. The floor is littered with pillows, books and papers, Sherlock’s laptop, and, on the opposite corner of John’s bed, a mattress on the floor. "You are sleeping here now? Sherlock, _really_.” Mycroft’s not playing at his disgust, it’s truly rather unimaginable for anyone to do this willingly, night and day. 

Sherlock shrugs. 

John is here, of course. Sitting on the side of the bed, slumped over. 

Mycroft looks at him warily. “You keep him sedated?” That’s the thing. They don’t sleep. They don’t stop. All they seem to want to do is to bite, and swallow. There’s nothing of John’s kindness, John’s self, in there, now. He’s just driven by instinct. 

“Ten cc’s, every four hours.” Sherlock replies. “More if I need to touch him.” His tone implies, _I’m not stupid, Mycroft._

It’s delusional, that’s what it is. John is not some innocent pet, he’s a grown man with a dangerous infection wavering near death, and Mycroft completely disapproves. He can feel sweat start prickling his neck. Mycroft turns to him. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock’s face is shielded, his eyes hard. He’s chosen his course and he’s going to stick to it, nothing that Mycroft says is going to change that, Mycroft has been around him long enough that he can recognise a losing battle. Eventually, this will solve itself, he knows, John won’t stay alive forever, not like this. But what will happen to Sherlock in the meantime is more crucial.

“...be careful.” It’s a weak follow-up, and Mycroft knows it. 

Sherlock looks completely unaffected. “Obviously.” 

“Are you working?” Mycroft already knows he isn’t. Sherlock’s researching the infection and only that; forgoing sleep and food, ignoring himself in favour of the question in front of him. But he’s no doctor, no immunologist. He can’t solve this any more than they can. 

Mycroft’s reminding himself of Mummy, visiting like this. _Are you eating, Sherlock? You’re so thin. I bet you’re not eating. Mycroft, isn’t he thin?_

“No,” Sherlock replies, his eyes darting away. 

It’s the truth, which is unexpected in itself, but is that a veiled invitation to stay a while? Or is he simply feeling too numb to care enough to lie? Mycroft takes the chance. “Do you still have that bottle I gave you at Christmas?” 

Sherlock shrugs. He takes the hint though, and walks out, down the stairs, to go looking for it. Leaving Mycroft alone with what is left of John. 

Mycroft turns around slowly. John is looking in his general direction, but there’s no recognition in his glassed-over eyes. No warmth beneath his dead grey skin.

It’s apparent that Sherlock has been taking care of him, at least. He’s not as far gone as some of the others Mycroft’s seen recently, and John has been infected for longer. He’s dressed in his normal clothing underneath the restrains. Lots of layers, in fact; a shirt, thick jumper, trousers and blue woollen socks, obviously knitted by Mrs. Hudson for this exact purpose. Despite the room’s general stuffiness, John doesn’t stink, there’s nothing of the rotting smell Mycroft remembers only too well. No blood by his mouth, either. He has chewed on his lips at one point, a common thing for the infected; and they’re gruesomely opened in places, pink meat shining through, but it’s been cleaned up. There is no healing, they’ll remain that way. 

Mycroft can feel himself start to sweat uncomfortably. He opens the buttons on his jacket, and shrugs out of it. He folds it neatly between his hands. 

When Sherlock re-enters the room, he immediately looks at John, but doesn’t say anything. It was a show of trust to leave them alone together, Mycroft recognises. Not that he would harm John, even like this, but it’s not impossible, he supposes. 

Sherlock has indeed found the bottle, and is holding two glasses. Sherlock walks past him, and sinks down gracefully onto his mattress. 

Mycroft looks around. There’s nowhere else to sit except the bed, currently occupied by John, or the mattress on the floor. Convincing Sherlock to leave this room will be futile, Mycroft assumes. So he sighs, and - _dear lord that’s uncomfortable_ \- lowers himself down to sit on the other end of the mattress, and settles a pillow behind his back. 

Sherlock pours him a nearly full glass. Mycroft accepts it, then after a moment loosens his tie, puts it to the side, and undoes the top buttons of his shirt, as well. “It’s unreasonably hot in here, is there a reason, or are you just longing for a more tropical _locale_?”

“Research suggests a high temperature is beneficial for John’s blood flow.” Sherlock pours the same for himself, and puts it to his lips immediately. It’s telling that he’s drinking at all, Mycroft thinks. 

Mycroft glances at John, who is now drooling, his mouth lazily opening and closing, like a stranded fish.

Sherlock’s eyes follow his, but rest on John easily. He doesn’t seem to notice the emptiness of John’s face, or the fact that he is dangerous, dripping with a virus, posed to attack at any second. 

“There are studies being done worldwide. More than you showed me last time.” 

Mycroft takes a drink. “The Swedish trials?” He’s been keeping up, as well. They’ve locked a whole lot of infected together in a house and simply observed their behaviour, in order to determine which base instincts take precedent. They didn’t attack each other. Some were reported to do menial tasks, like sweeping the floors, doing the dishes. Only on autopilot, for hours at a time, cleaning the same spot, washing the same plate. They’ve estimated their intelligence at below that of two-year olds. They’ve used scanners to see which parts of the brains survive. It’s not much. They’ve had some small success with implanting electrodes and re-stimulating pathways. But only to the level where some of them returned to a sleeping rhythm, and some nonsensical babbling. 

“South Korea.” Sherlock says, still looking at John. 

Mycroft grimaces. He’s read those reports. They’re performing surgery on them without anaesthetic, just tying them down and cutting to see what’s inside. Torturing them. “Why is that significant?” Or relevant to John. 

“They’ve proven they can feel.” Sherlock is still staring at John, in a way that Mycroft suspects he doesn’t even know he’s doing. 

That explains the careful sedation, then. Mycroft makes sure his voice is understanding, “Sherlock, do you honestly wish that upon him? The thought that he’s suffering?” 

Sherlock turns his head stubbornly. “It means there’s something left.” 

Mycroft takes a large sip, feels the alcohol burn its way down his throat. The muscles in his legs are already protesting at being stretched out in front of him like that. Sweat is pearling on his forehead, gathering under his arms. It’s like an oven in here. He remembers the screams again, too easily.

He downs the glass, and puts it aside. Opens the button on the side of his wrist, and carefully, evenly rolls up his sleeve, presses the lines with his fingertips. 

He can see John moving his hand, rhythmically, spastically. It’s not a movement that falls within human development; no healthy toddler does this, no healthy child. It signifies a broken brain, something worse than regression. Mycroft rolls up the other sleeve. 

“They scream,” he offers, unsure why it falls from his tongue so easily. Why he’s confessing this to Sherlock, of all people. 

“When they’re burned?” Sherlock asks, horror and interest warring in his voice. 

“Yes.” 

Sherlock nods, a considering look in his eyes. He pours himself a glass all the way to the rim, the bottle shaking slightly in his hand. He misses, and pours over the edge, as well. He probably hasn’t eaten in days if his coordination is off by that much. Mycroft makes a mental note to bring him food, next time. 

John startles them with the audible snapping of his teeth. Sherlock simply glances at him. 

They drink on. 

Sherlock’s drinking faster than Mycroft has ever seen him do. Maybe he _is_ finding solace in the bottle these days. It can’t be healthy, sitting in here all day long. Not as if Mycroft sees much daylight himself, but this room is muggy, small, all wood-panelling, the heating working overtime, a single, small window. He can feel moisture on his back sticking to his shirt, to the pillow. He feels vaguely nauseous. 

After the third drink, Mycroft opens his waistcoat buttons, and leans forward to shrug out of the brocade vest. He folds it and puts it down on the floor, over his tie. His suit is going to be ruined from sitting like this, anyway. He might as well be somewhat comfortable. 

Sherlock’s eyes are following his movements, dully. 

Mycroft sees Sherlock’s pale face, the tell-tale signs of sleeplessness, of sorrow. “When is the last time you went outside?” _The last time you ate? You laughed? Were interested in anything besides John?_

Sherlock’s gaze wanders to the window as if he’s not entirely sure what outside means, anymore. “Why?” 

_Because it would be good for you._ Mycroft doesn’t take the effort of saying that. He would almost feel admiration for Sherlock’s unwavering determination to save John, if only it would serve a purpose. John will never know that Sherlock even did this. It’s senseless, useless. 

Still, John couldn’t ask for a better guardian, he supposes. 

Mycroft’s eyes drift back to John’s face. In this light John doesn’t look that different from how Mycroft remembers him. Short, kind, built for calm and trust, but a great soldier underneath. _Sherlock’s soldier._

He sighs. Alcohol always did make him maudlin. 

Sherlock pours him another, even more sloppily than the last time. The spilled drops slowly spread over the wooden floor. Mycroft can’t taste the burn anymore; it’s just a general taste of liquid and heat, swirling around in his mouth, disappearing down his throat. They’re starting to get halfway down the bottle.

Mycroft looks at Sherlock in-between drinks, sees the despair written there loud and clear. _Is this what love feels like, then, little brother?_ Mycroft’s never wanted any part of it for this exact reason. He never wished it on Sherlock, either, but he can feel it right now, that vulnerable thing, hot in his chest. Sherlock sees him looking, and holds his gaze. “What?”

Some part of Mycroft wants to reach out and hold him. He wants to pull him close the way he did when they were children, tuck Sherlock’s curls under his chin, hold him in a fortress of his arms and legs. Be the beginning and the end, for him. _Keep him safe._ Those days are long past, of course. Mycroft has another sip instead. There’s nothing he can do. Nothing to make this better. 

Sherlock is leaning in towards him. 

Mycroft eyes him with some confusion. Lifts a hand, meaning to put it on Sherlock’s shoulder, but Sherlock half-leans half-falls over and bumps into him quite hard. Mycroft steadies him. “You’re drunk.”

Sherlock smiles, quickly, sadly. “Yes.” And then turns and puts his head on his shoulder. 

Mycroft feels an unfamiliar drop in his stomach. It’s very _close_ somehow. He stiffly tries to lean away a little; but Sherlock’s insistent. He’s also heavy, and as Mycroft moves away he simply slides down, until his head hits hard against Mycroft’s upper legs, and then lies down there and sighs, deeply. 

Mycroft’s hand hovers in the air, somewhat uncomfortable with touching him. He’s had quite a lot to drink himself, it all feels vague and uncertain, and warm, Sherlock’s head is heavy on his legs and seems to be radiating heat. 

Then Mycroft feels the shaking of Sherlock’s shoulders. He hears the shivering intakes of breath, he thinks he’s laughing for a second, _hah - got you there, brother mine._ But that’s only because he hasn’t seen the alternative since Sherlock was about ten. He’s crying. Mycroft slowly puts his hand on Sherlock’s curls, half-expecting him to pull away immediately, but he doesn’t. 

So Mycroft touches Sherlock in a way that he hasn’t done in twenty years, uneasily strokes his hair, not certain if it’s helping. 

After a while Sherlock quiets down, and Mycroft lets his hand lie on Sherlock’s head, feels his hair under his fingertips. He closes his eyes against the burning there, and swallows away the hot knot in his throat. 

Darkness falls over the room like a curtain. Sherlock, drunk enough to probably not even remember this, drifts into solid sleep. He’s a warm, damp weight on Mycroft’s lap, and Mycroft stays sitting there for a long time. Listening to the traffic, outside. To John, shifting occasionally. The sound of his teeth, and the wet smacking of his mouth like an unwelcome parody of Sherlock’s crying. 

The heat and alcohol thump in Mycroft’s head. Prickle his skin. He wants to yell at John to _sit still and stop it_. Sherlock is uncomfortable against him. 

Mycroft shifts away eventually when it becomes unbearable to be there, when he thinks he might throw up if he stays one second longer. He tries to extract himself carefully, but Sherlock still wakes up. He doesn’t speak, luckily. Mycroft gathers up his clothes, stands up dizzily and makes it to the door in three steps. 

He stands outside 221b for a long time, leaning on his umbrella, gulping in the cool summer air. 

 

\---

 

_Now_

The second time Mycroft wakes in his hospital bed, he opens his eyes cautiously. 

It’s dark now, only the vague hue of his heart rate monitor and some light from the corridor illuminating his room. His body feels wrecked. His head is pounding. Every single muscle is a twinge of pain, so it takes a while before it sinks in that he _can feel_. Everything. His toes, back, chest, every bit of it. 

Mycroft turns his head, looks down, and moves his finger. It barely takes any effort. 

He quickly balls his fingers into a fist, and lets go again. First his right hand, then his left. 

He moves his feet, enough to push the blanket up, and wiggles his toes. It’s difficult, his legs feel stiff and weak, but he can do it. Mycroft raises his head, and slowly, conscious of the wires still sticking out of his chest, moves to sit up. Every muscle screams, but he can lift himself a bit off the mattress and hold it, before he has to let go and fall back again. It works. _He can move._

Whatever they sedated him with is still present, thrumming a heavy, unnatural tiredness under his skin. Waves of sleep are rolling over him, and no matter how hard he tries to stay clear-headed, he drifts back into dozing again soon after. At one point he wakes up shivering, teeth clattering. Later sweating wetly, sticking to the damp covers. The wires are in the way, keeping him rooted in one sleeping position. His back aches. But whenever he skirts back to consciousness, he remembers to move.

Then, Sherlock is in his room. 

Mycroft can smell him before he opens his eyes and pulls himself away from sleep. 

“Full mobility?” Sherlock’s keeping his voice low, probably in response to the darkness in the room. It must be the middle of the night.

“It seems to be the case,” Mycroft replies slowly, relief and exhaustion both clouding his voice. He’s beyond tired, and the headache seems to have found a permanent home pressing behind his eyes. 

Sherlock looks him over. “Good. That’s...” He smiles, his face breaking into something relieved for a moment. 

Then he hesitates, and he goes back to his regular, pained mask. _John_ , Mycroft knows. _Always John._ He must not be showing any response yet for Sherlock to even be here. 

“Sleep,” Sherlock says hesitantly, eyes still flickering over him, an unspoken _you’re in pain and tired_. 

He never would have said that, before. He never would have let himself acknowledge something so trivial. _His grief has made him brittle_ , Mycroft thinks, and selfishly, he is grateful for it in this moment. “Sherlock,” he says quietly, as his eyes fall closed and he drifts under again. He’s not sure if he even said it out loud. It doesn’t matter. 

He might have really survived this. 

Death.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock is sitting by John’s hospital bed, waiting for him to wake up. 

He has been waiting for five months. 

It seems impossible that this much time has passed already, that John has been silent and gone all this time. It doesn’t seem like it, John’s body is still here, after all. But at the same time it feels as if Sherlock’s life before this, the one that included John, is something dusty and long forgotten. 

Sherlock wonders if he’s made it seem better than it really was, in his mind. People do that. _Sentiment_. They make their memories seem brighter, their laughter seem better, their friendships seem more significant than they really were. Sherlock suspects that he might have done that, because it can’t possibly have been that good. John can’t have been that wonderful, not really. 

Sherlock knows very well that it’s never going to be like that again. That John’s not going to open his eyes, smile and ask whether they’ve got a case on. Or ask for a cuppa. Or joke that the kettle better not be filled with snails. (It was just that one time. And Sherlock bought him a new one. At least he thinks so. He might have told John to buy a new one, same thing.)

Sherlock doesn’t remember John’s jokes, actually, not perfectly. He knows the rhythm of his voice, still, and some of the things John found funny, but he’s not sure whether he’s getting it right every time any more. 

But he knows he needs to try. He promised John. Or well, he didn’t make promises when John could still hear, actually, it came only after. When it was just the two of them, in John’s silent, hot room. Sherlock holding on to him too tightly, the words falling from his lips as easily as if he’d been holding them inside all along. _Don’t be gone, John. Wake up. Please._

Five months. 

Sherlock sits in a hard-backed, plastic chair, and waits. 

It feels uneasy; John’s lying abnormally still now they’ve sedated him like this. He never used to sleep. Sherlock could barely get him to lie down, and even then John couldn’t stop moving in small, slow segments, tirelessly, endlessly. Sherlock spent nights lying awake, too, listening to the rustling of John’s hands on the bedcovers, opening and closing. The dull thumps of John’s head against the headboard. The rhythmic grinding of his teeth. The soft, hungry sounds of his mouth and throat. 

But now John’s completely silent, tied up by the wrists and ankles. He’s never seemed as dead as he does right now. 

He is breathing, however. The heart monitor shows a heartbeat. He’s been given enough blood transfusions to renew his blood volume several times over, and they are going to keep doing it. Sherlock has donated some himself, when they asked. The small round plaster on the bend of his arm pulls against his flesh as he stretches it. They don’t care that he was an intravenous drug user; he can’t kill John all over again. 

Sherlock feels empty himself, watching John’s body like this. Emptied of blood, emptied of all he might have thought about six months ago, a year ago. Now there’s only research. Transmission rates. Experimental data of brain synapse re-growth. Details about cell decay and changed DNA, about body chemistry and everything preceding the intricate process of death. 

Sherlock has a whole room in his mind palace dedicated to John’s daily needs. There’s a roster there, showing when John needs to be sedated, and where. When John needs to be washed, and changed. When his nails need to be cut, when he needs to be shaved. When he needs to rinse the scent of death from John’s skin. 

The first time Sherlock sedated John and stripped his clothes, it felt so uneasy that he took much too long, and half-way through he had to administer an extra dose to keep John from attacking. 

In time, he learned to be efficient. To guide John downstairs, undress him, and put him in the bath. To run a washcloth over every pale, grey part of his body, water catching against the hairs on his arms, on his chest. To touch him between his legs without hesitation. To shampoo his hair, and use a cup to rinse it off again. To shave him around the wounds of his lips. To cut John’s nails, once every eleven days with a small, sharp pair of scissors, into half-moon shapes.

Sherlock knows John more intimately now than he ever did before, and it feels like an imposition. John wouldn’t want him to be touching him like that. John wouldn’t want to be alive, like this, either, Sherlock knows. 

But John isn’t here to want. 

Sherlock has never cared for anyone in the literal sense. He has never been the only thing standing between a person and their suffering, and it’s grating. Terrifying. 

A nurse comes in with another bag of blood. “Mr. Holmes.” 

She doesn’t look him in the eye as she greets him. None of them like to, they all think that he’s mad, that he’s unstable, too involved in this. They’re not used to people being here and caring. They’ve seen way too many die to think in terms of patients, anymore. They’re _subjects_. 

She changes the bag, checks the pump regulating John’s heartbeat, and dials it up. There’s a heating pad, wrapped around John’s torso. There are electrodes taped to his skull, but all they’re picking up are some vague base waves. John’s hair is longer than it’s ever been, falling over his ears. Sherlock’s thought about cutting that, too, but he hasn’t, yet. He likes to run his hands through it. 

The nurse taps a pen on John’s hand and looks for a reflex, or any change on the screen. There is none. 

She turns around, and looks at him, a little exasperated. “We won’t see a change for a while yet.”

“I’m aware.” Sherlock says, surprised at how hoarse his voices comes out. 

She leaves. 

He’s not leaving John. He can’t. 

Sherlock was there as Mycroft woke up, so he has an idea of what this could be like. He’s replayed it in his mind constantly since then. John slowly starting to move, having to take some time to figure out where he is, and then the look in his eyes as he recognises him. The thought aches, because it’s such a nice image. Because it won’t be like that, with John. 

“Don’t be surprised if he screams,” the doctor mentioned yesterday, casually. 

“Or if he asks you to kill him,” another added. “They all do, when they remember.” 

But John won’t, Sherlock thinks. John was never suicidal. _Except he was, once._ No. John will want to live. 

John will _understand_. 

 

\---

 

_Day 1_

They’re busy on the day London decides to get itself a far-reaching infectious disease. Running around Islington, chasing a jewel thief on a green Vespa. It’s exciting, and even though John is lagging behind, Sherlock takes the time to look over his shoulder and grin at him. 

He yells, “Hurry up, John!” Just to hear him swear between panting breaths. 

They’re standing over the second murder victim, both jewel thief and Vespa gone into custody, when Sherlock gets a text from Mycroft. “ _Stay off the streets. MH._ ” He reads it, and dismisses it.

By then they’re close to arresting not the shop owner, but her cousin with the birthmark ( _Obvious! Why didn’t he see it sooner!_ ), but when they make it outside of the shop-slash-murder scene, wanting to be on their way to the cousin’s house and quick, there’s not a single black cab in sight. 

John looks left and right, and laughs. “I thought this was a main road?”

It is. It was when they passed it less than an hour ago. And now, besides a single lonely car speeding past, it’s quiet. 

“Maybe they closed it off somewhere?” John reasons. “Filming something or, I don’t know, protests?” 

Sherlock checks his phone again. The headlines are screaming nonsense at him about a plague infecting half of London, it’s obviously exaggerated. He does think it’s somewhat interesting, that new disease, together with the rest of the world he’s heard about it and had some vague thoughts about looking up its infection areas. But murder is so much cleverer. So he calls Lestrade. 

It puts them in the somewhat foreign position of having to wait for the Met to come to their location, pick them up, and accompany them to make an arrest. But during the twenty minutes of standing by the side of the road Sherlock tells John some of his deductions, and as is often the case, John doesn’t seem to mind that the leap to the cousin should have been obvious from the pictures. Instead he just chuckles, and says it’s brilliant, and that he’ll write it up for his blog. 

When their ride finally arrives it is in the shape of a hassled-looking Sally, who swears as a greeting and says that she has better things to do today than play babysitter for the two of them. Her account of what happened at Heathrow and what’s been on the news crashes John’s good mood, too. He develops a frown between his eyebrows, and nothing Sherlock adds about the case seems to make it go away. 

When they do make the arrest it’s fast and unsatisfying, as is giving the statements. There’s hardly anyone in, and those that are, are on the constantly ringing phones, or glued to the news. 

When John suggests that they leave and do it later, Sherlock agrees. 

John doesn’t want to eat, either, so instead they go straight home, and watch the news play out on every channel. The same facts being repeated over and over, a victim count on the bottom of the screen, it’s boring. 

John watches it all though. He goes downstairs to check on Mrs. Hudson, and she comes up with him, so they can watch some more together, sharing worried blather. Mrs. Hudson calls some of her friends to check on them. As if they would suddenly all be dead. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and goes to his room. He can hear the sound of the TV vaguely; can make out about one word in three. ‘Hundreds of infected.’ ‘Like nothing we’ve ever seen.’ 

Mycroft will be busy, Sherlock thinks. At least _he’ll_ have work to do. He’ll be ordering the army around, and the Department of Health and god knows who else. He’s probably having a blast yelling into phones and looking highly organised in times of crisis - Sherlock has always suspected he enjoys that kind of thing a little too much. 

Sherlock could almost see Mycroft releasing this infection himself to check whether the security protocols are up to date. 

Almost, since it sounds too nasty even for Mycroft and his god complex. Plus, he would have preferred a neat disease, most likely. Not something that involves quite that much infectious drooling and gory cannibalism. 

 

_Day 3_

By John’s command, they stay indoors except for essential trips. They argue about what essential entails, of course. John insists on going to work, “Surely you’re going to run into them there, is that logical?” Sherlock asks, and John just sighs. And doing quick shopping for themselves and Mrs. Hudson. Who is perfectly capable of carrying her own bags, and is just taking advantage of the fact that she can’t run all that fast if necessary. 

John comes home late and tired, and with only a couple of tins of beans. The shops are overrun by people panic buying. 

Sherlock shrugs. “Not hungry anyway.” Mrs Hudson ooh and aahs her shock, then heats up the beans. 

The next morning after John leaves for work, Sherlock goes to the morgue. It is difficult getting around without cabs and while avoiding the tube and buses, it takes him over an hour, but Molly at least is glad to see him. Well, after she says that he really shouldn’t be here several times, and makes him wear hazmat-level gloves. 

The corpses are utterly fascinating, and worth the walk. They’ve all been shot, so far not a single person has actually died from this infection. But their symptoms are plain to see: reduced blood flow before death, their brains swollen and oddly-textured, and their saliva is teeming with a viral load. 

Molly forbids him from taking samples home. Thinking of John, Sherlock agrees, but he returns the next day with his personal collection of microscope lenses. He’s never been much into immunology, but getting a chance to see a completely new disease like this is interesting in itself. 

On the way back, he wanders around an oddly-deserted London, trying to find some live ones. 

There are people around, but they’re all hurrying, throwing suspicious glances over their shoulders. Some are wearing mouth masks. The atmosphere is tense. Not even the homeless he contacts know where he can find an infected one, but in the end it’s simple - he follows an ambulance to a group of rail workers, a couple turned already, the rest most likely infected. 

Sherlock can’t get close enough to see much, and John yells at him when he finds out what he did, but when he does see is very interesting, actually. They were chasing the ambulance staff, albeit slowly, and trying to eat them. 

 

_Day 31_

Sherlock, except from some purposeful observing, hasn’t seen that many yet. He certainly hasn’t seen one simply appear out of nowhere, which happens when he’s at a crime scene a month in, and one wanders out of the bathroom, groaning and growling. 

The whole team simply freezes, and Anderson says, voice high with panic, “Well, someone kill it!” 

Lestrade has his gun out already, but he’s looking as if he really, really doesn’t want to shoot an unarmed civilian. Even if she’s currently snapping her teeth and advancing on them. Slowly, she looks like she was in her seventies before this happened. Her one leg drags against the carpet. She’s wearing pink slippers. 

Sally sighs. “That’s going to contaminate the crime scene.” 

It is. If they shoot an infected, they’ll have to treat the whole place as a biological hazard. 

One of the pink slippers gets stuck on the edge of the carpet. The woman teeters for several seconds without trying to find her balance. And then falls over with a loud thump, straight onto her face. Then she looks up, and starts crawling. Dark, almost black blood dripping from her broken nose. 

The whole team scampers back towards the other side of the room. 

Lestrade cocks his gun. Sally has hers as well, and walks closer. She aims. 

“No, shoot her from farther away, and aim downwards.” Sherlock says. 

Sally looks at him inquisitively. 

It’s obvious. “Less blood splatter.” 

She nods, takes three steps back, and aims. The shot is loud in the small living room. There’s a slowly growing pool of blood staining the carpet. 

Lestrade takes his radio, and says, “One shot fired, infected neutralised, situation clear, hazmat team requested.” 

There’s a rustle over the line, and then “Got that, team heading your way. Sit tight, they’ll be there in thirty minutes.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

The next two hours are excruciating. Mycroft texts minutes after the radio call has gone through, a simple “ _? MH._ ” 

Sherlock thinks about not replying, but then he’s simply inviting a phone call, or worse, a visit, so he replies, “ _Don’t fret, I’m fine. SH._ ”

They get wrapped in plastic, taken out one by one, and forced to shower in a hastily-erected cubicle in the murder victim’s back yard. It’s March and it’s chilly, plus Anderson’s hairy arse was the last thing Sherlock ever wanted to see. He texts John: “ _Just saw Anderson naked. Burned my eyes. SH._ ” 

Later he adds, “ _There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. SH._ ”

And even later, “ _Decontamination shower. SH._ ”

Then, kind of sheepishly, “ _I’m fine. SH._ ” 

John replies only later that day, with: “ _You better be! Can’t wait to hear that story! Murder scenes weren’t that much fun in my day._ ” 

Sherlock runs off as soon as they clear him to go, and the rest of the day is spent solving the really depressingly boring case. Then the next five days he’s coughing and blowing snot into tissues when it turns out his own little foray into exhibitionism has given him a cold. He spends those on the sofa, with John worriedly instructing him to take his temperature. 

It isn’t the infection. They both know it isn’t. Still John insists, and Sherlock’s a bit surprised to find out that he doesn’t hate that. 

The thought that John’s worried beyond any real rational reason.

 

_Day 49_

Mycroft sends him a gun and the required paperwork. Sherlock doesn’t care about it much, but John is quite pleased with it, a twin to his own gun. He touches it with quiet, solemn delight, cleans it thoroughly, and gives a curt little nod when he’s done. 

John’s the only reason Sherlock agrees to take it with him when he goes out. He’s not a great shot, and he’s not convinced that it’s necessary to shoot them, so it seems a bit odd to take it with. He never knows what to do with it, too. Forgets it’s there when he needs it. 

John takes it entirely seriously though, and doesn’t leave the flat without his. He’s working longer and longer hours the longer this infection goes on, as well. They need every medical professional, and he can’t say no now. He stops being a GP when they close the general practices, and goes to work in a new field clinic. Testing people all day, and quarantining those who show signs. He comes home exhausted, talking quietly about the shortage of staff, the fear people feel, the fact that they can’t control this. About what it’s like to see them turn. 

Some evenings he doesn’t say a word, just sits in silence. It’s palpable. _It’s getting worse._

John doesn’t have time to come along on cases anymore at all. There’s not that many right now, anyway, so Sherlock manages without him, but it’s strange to realise how much he got used to having John working with him. How much he has come to expect his presence at his back. His occasional insights, however misguided they might be, that never fail to either amuse or inspire. His unwavering trust. His admiration. 

John’s never been essential to Sherlock’s work, not really, but having to do it alone again certainly takes a lot of the shine away. Sherlock finds himself handling the cases faster than he would have before. Pointing out the guilty as soon as he has enough evidence, and letting the Met deal with everything else. He’d rather be home on the off chance that John comes back before ten and wants to hear what happened that day. 

Some nights John doesn’t come home at all. 

John never says that he thinks this infection is going to get worse, but he acts like it. He’s rigorous about their food supplies. He reminds him about what to do when he comes into contact with an infected again and again. 

John’s worried and agitated, preoccupied, distant, and then at some moments... Sometimes Sherlock catches his eyes on him, and there’s something he can’t really determine about it. Something both sad, and fond, perhaps. Something that makes his stomach feel warm, and his chest tight, and makes John smile slow at him, and hold his gaze. 

 

_Day 61_

In an especially boring week and when he hasn’t had any annoying texts from Mycroft for a while, Sherlock steals an ID off an MI6 agent. Then infiltrates the underground bunker of their headquarters, and walks into the top secret, high-security office. 

Mycroft just rolls his eyes. 

Like John, he looks tired, but he carries it more naturally. Mycroft’s face has always had that sheen of superiority, he’s not simply projecting it to shush the masses, Sherlock knows, he genuinely feels in charge. It’s moderately busy there, with people filing in and out of offices, studying screens, dealing with paper work. But it‘s hardly ground zero of disease control, so Sherlock throws himself down on Mycroft’s very antique and very uncomfortable sofa, and says, “Bored.” 

Mycroft pulls a face. “A rampant infection spreading through London not exciting enough for you?” 

“Hmm... No. Disease is too predictable, no intelligence behind it.” Sherlock eyes him. Tired, yes, sleep shortage, but it goes beyond just the disease, he’s truly worried. “You’re _concerned_.”

“Well, such is the life of a government official.” Mycroft says, “Forced to concern oneself with innocent lives.”

“Forced being the operative word.” Sherlock says it slightly questioningly. It’s not like Mycroft ever loses sleep about the _innocent_ , not really. There is no sense in caring. 

“Are you here for a specific reason, or...” Mycroft looks around. “Just to show us all that you could?”

Sherlock makes sure to put his shoes on the sofa’s no doubt priceless fabric. Mycroft twitches. “Can’t I come and see my brother?” He grins, entirely false. 

Mycroft eyes him suspiciously. “...you can.”

Sherlock doesn’t actually have anything planned, but Mycroft doesn’t know that. 

“You are genuinely just bored?” Mycroft says, searchingly. He thinks he’s sure, but he’s cautious. 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, and sighs. “Not a single good murder in weeks, it’s all infected this, infected that. No imagination.” 

“John’s too busy?” 

Sherlock doesn’t deign to answer. If John would be home, he would be there too, obviously. But he’s not, he won’t be home for hours, there’s not a single interesting, brilliant or deviant crime being committed and his brain is _itching_ for something to do. “ _Mycroft!_ Entertain me.” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Are you interested in a report about the spread of the disease? A report on treatment facilities? Or predicted death rates, predicted impact on the economy, speculation about why they stay alive?” 

Sherlock thinks. “Yes. The last one.” 

Mycroft sighs, stands up from behind his desk, and hands him a pile of papers. “Knock yourself out.”

But after a while he orders tea from an assistant somewhere and they both sip their cups, looking at files, occasionally remarking something. 

And Sherlock catches Mycroft smiling into his teacup. 

 

\---

 

_Now_

Sherlock gets a tray of food from a nurse that he picks at for a bit and then realises that he hasn’t eaten in days and he’s famished. He polishes it off, even the ridiculous carton of juice that’s surely meant for children. He looks at John. He would have thought it was funny, seeing him sip from a straw stuck into something with cartoon characters on it. 

John would laugh, if he could. 

An hour later Sherlock gets a delivery from one of Mycroft’s blank-looking agents, a bag packed for him from 221b with a change of clothes and toiletries. She obviously has instructions to show him to a bathroom. And he has to admit that he does feel dirty, now that he thinks about it, so Sherlock showers, shaves the small amount of facial hair he’s been able to gather in the last few days, and goes back. 

John, annoyingly, stays exactly the same. They up the pump, again and again. They practically pour blood into him, nutrients, medicine. John has a much larger selection of drugs going into his body and tubes coming out again than Mycroft ever had. And... nothing. 

Sherlock turns his phone on to a whole list of messages from his contact abroad. Trial data. It seems most are booking some success, now. A couple are from Lestrade, enquiries as to whether they’re okay. Lestrade is one of the few people who still says ‘they’, these days. 

Most like to pretend John isn’t alive anymore. 

Sherlock texts back, “ _Experimental treatment for John. No results yet. SH._ ” 

There’s a message from Molly (“ _Everything okay?_ ”), and the newest one is from Mycroft, reading, “ _Don’t come back unless showered, you are an olfactory assault on the senses. MH._ ”

Sherlock types, “ _Lingering cannibalistic urges, is it? SH._ ” 

Mycroft replies, a little slower than he usually would, “ _Not that I’m aware of, but don’t tempt me. MH._ ” 

Sherlock doesn’t smile, but he does feel a flicker of amusement. Then glances at John. 

Mycroft was insistent, too, when he turned. Sherlock remembers Mycroft’s eyes, rolling wildly. Groans emerging from his throat, drool dripping down his chin. It was almost more shocking than seeing John that way. With John he’s had time to get used to his expressions, but he’s never seen Mycroft even remotely like that, uncomposed, grisly. And he never will again, Sherlock thinks, firmly, re-reading the message. He’s _fine_ now.

John sleeps on. 

 

\---

 

_Day 105_

The day starts out perfectly ordinary. 

Sherlock gets up early enough so he’s there while John gets ready and has breakfast. He’s occupying himself with an experiment so that he has an excuse to be in the kitchen, but the truth is that he treasures those early mornings. The way John is a little sleepy still, tussled around the edges. The way he is just puttering about in his bath robe. He talks about it looking sunny out, sounding pleased about something that mundane. 

Sherlock hums, pretends not to care one way or another, but he’s observing every change in tone, every detail of John in that kitchen in the early morning light. 

And then John leaves, leaves Sherlock to quiet and boredom, and, as ever, he hates him a little for that. He hates the infected, for being more interesting to John than he is. For _needing_ him more. They don’t, lots of doctors could do what John does, but John seems to think that he’s more useful there than he is at home, and Sherlock doesn’t know how to tell him differently. Whenever he tries, John laughs, as if he’s selfish, or odd. “I hate those sick people, stay home,” is a joke, to John. And “I’m more interesting,” gets met with a raised eyebrow. 

Sherlock knows it’s true though. Surely he is more interesting than a long line of infected, boring people.

Then just a couple of hours later, Rita from the front desk in St. Bart’s calls him. When she says that they just brought in a John Watson, Sherlock still thinks that maybe it is something else. Sherlock bribed her months ago, just in case, but maybe John got into a fight, that’s happened before. Or some patient bled all over him and it was his turn for a contamination shower, maybe that. But then the words “Quarantine unit” and “been bitten by a patient” start spinning in his mind. 

So he leaves, for St Bart’s. And he takes his gun, because he promised John he’d carry it. 

Sherlock doesn’t go in with the intention to use it, he just needs to see John, and they won’t let him. So it makes sense, people react to guns instinctively. Sherlock knows that John wouldn’t approve, but it’s not like it’s loaded, anyway. And yes, obviously it’s stupidly amateur, but he needs to see John _now_. 

It doesn’t take long for Mycroft to stride in and look at him with indignation, because _pulling a gun on a doctor just to get your way, Sherlock, really, aren’t you at least a bit smarter than that?_ But Sherlock doesn’t care, it worked, he gets escorted upstairs and given a hazmat suit and they let him into a small, white room, with a bed, and John on it. 

John, still alive for now. _John_ , everything that that word means, hot and urgent in his chest. 

Sherlock feels the bottom of his stomach drop. He clears his throat. Takes a breath. Then stops. He only thought about getting here. Not about what to say to him if he was here. 

John looks at him, his eyes showing badly suppressed anger and fear. Shrugs. “Well, I got bit.” 

Sherlock says, “That’s stupid. Should have been more careful, John, really.” 

And John’s face goes through a complicated mix of emotions, but it ends on... amused. 

Sherlock takes a breath, fully, _utterly_ aware that this is going to be the last he’ll ever have of John, and says, “You idiot.” 

And John leans back, and relaxes. 

So Sherlock starts talking, stupidly. He tells the story about his very first case, in detail. About Carl Powers, and writing to the police. It’s something John has been wanting to hear for a long time, Sherlock knows, so he gives it to him now. He underlines his own clumsiness, Mycroft’s awkward pimples and pompousness at that age, to John’s amusement. He adds details that were never relevant before but he remembers anyhow, and when that story is over he tells the one of the time he fell out of a window trying to stalk a multiple rapist, and the time he crawled into a sewer, and…

John laughs, and Sherlock talks on, accepts the urgent burn of it, the pressing urge to tell John everything, _everything_ about himself that he’d always stowed away inside with the thought of telling it later. Everything he ever put off until a better time, until it was really necessary to impress John, comes rolling off his tongue now. 

John turns feverish, after a while. His eyes shine; his cheeks are unnaturally flushed. He takes off his jumper, momentarily revealing his bandaged forearm, and red, angry lines from it following up his veins. Sherlock pretends not to see. Instead tells the story of an exotic bird smuggler who hid sedated parrots up his trousers, and what happened when he raced after him through Gatwick customs, and the parrots started waking up. 

John shakes with laughter. 

In the middle of the story about a chase over a park pond in rowboats, John turns shockingly pale. He lies down on his bed, settling his body carefully against the pillows, as if he turned old and brittle in the last hour. 

They both know he’s nearing the end. 

Sherlock doesn’t reach out. He’s in the hazmat suit, sweating into his shirt, couldn’t touch John if he wanted. He’ll never be able to touch him again. John must see something of regret in his face but either he interprets it wrongly, or he does so on purpose to distract him because he says, almost casually, “You want my body to autopsy, after?”

Sherlock looks at him in shock. “What?” John’s not going to die, he’ll just turn. They can keep him in a treatment centre. They can… 

“I know you’ve been wanting to have a look at some more infected, so, you can. Have mine. If you want to.” John seems almost pleased, suggesting that. “Keep my earlobes in the oven, my toes in the bath, you know, the usual.” He’s half-joking, but not fully. 

Sherlock blinks. John is offering him _his dead body_. It feels like a gift he’s not sure how to reply to. 

He’s thought about it every once in a while, long before there ever was an infection. To have John, spread out on a metal slab. To take samples from him, scrape skin cells, lift the traces of life of his skin. To take a scalpel and slice into him, spreading apart his skin to reveal the dark, congealed blood beneath. 

But he’s never _meant_ it. 

“No.” Sherlock says. “Stay alive.” 

John looks at him, suddenly serious. “I don’t want to, Sherlock. No one wants to live like that.” 

“They’ll find a cure,” Sherlock offers. They haven’t yet, but it’s a disease, it’s being worked on, there is every chance to think this can be cured, given time and research. 

“Not soon enough.” John says resolutely. “Sherlock…” he takes a breath, and he needs to gasp for it, it’s obviously difficult. _How long has he been struggling to breathe?_ Sherlock curses himself. Why isn’t he paying attention, he should be able to calculate how many hours, how many minutes John has left. He should _know_! 

“You...” John pauses. He seems to have to collect his thoughts. “You saved me. In so many ways, God, Sherlock, you have no idea.”

“John.” Sherlock says, uncomfortably aware that he’s saying goodbye now, and that’s wrong, he can’t, John can’t…

“No, let me say this.” John says, stubbornly. He’s breathing shallowly now. His eyes are being underlined with growing dark circles. “I… You’re insane, and brilliant, and a… _a cock_ ,” John smiles, “…and you’ve made my life so much more than I ever thought I’d have.” He looks at him, openly, now. “These last few years… I wouldn’t… I didn’t want anything else than to spend them with you.” 

Sherlock feels his throat close up. As much as he hates the suit surrounding him, he’s almost glad for the barrier separating him from John. John reaches out his hand, and Sherlock takes it, wraps his plastic-covered fingers in John’s. He can feel the strength of John’s grip, how he’s holding on with all his might, but also how feeble it is. 

He should say something back, Sherlock thinks. But John doesn’t seem to expect it, simply looks at him for a while more, and then closes his eyes. His breathing becomes even shallower. Sherlock presses his fingers to his neck, and tries to count his heartbeats. 

The next time John opens his eyes, they’re fluttering, and he can’t speak anymore. His hand doesn’t work properly, either, he reaches towards him, but his coordination is off. Sherlock takes it anyway. John moves it, deliberately, to Sherlock’s chest. 

So Sherlock holds John’s hand against his heart, and feels his eyes burn. 

He swallows back tears, again and again. 

John looks at him, at times almost understanding, his mouth forming “Sherlock,” soundlessly. Then, more and more, his eyes simply stare, and roll away. Nothing left. 

The infection is racing through his brain, Sherlock knows. John’s muscles start shocking. He seizes, at first almost unnoticeably, and then goes into a grand mal. Sherlock puts him on his side, and puts a hand on his shoulder. 

There’s nothing he can do. 

_Nothing_. 

A woman in a hazmat suit comes by to tell him it’s time. Sherlock ignores her. When John wakes up again, he’s drooling. His eyes are cloudy. He snaps at Sherlock’s hand. He tries to sit up. He tries to bite him. 

Sherlock simply leans back.

John does it again, and threatens to fall of the bed. 

When it becomes too much of a struggle, Sherlock stands up, so he can’t follow him. 

“We’ll have to secure him now,” the woman announces. Sherlock didn’t even notice she was still here. He nods, distantly. 

A plan is slowly forming in his mind. _He can have John’s body. John said so._

He goes to find Mycroft. 

 

\---

 

_Now_

Another night by John’s bed and Sherlock turns the overhead lights off, scoots down lower on his chair, and closes his eyes. He’s close enough to hear as soon as John makes a sound, of course. Still he manages some sleep like that; wakes only when nurses walk in and out of the room to check on John. 

He wakes with light falling into the room, but when he looks at John, his breath catches. 

There’s blood, bright red, all over John’s face and neck. It’s dripping off John’s lips, rolling over his chin. Sherlock jumps up. 

John hasn’t bitten himself again, as he first thought, or even moved. It’s the wide gashes in his lips and tongue he made from chewing on them months ago that have opened. The blood is dripping out of the cuts, and mixing with his spit, bubbling up at John’s mouth. It looks worse than it is, Sherlock knows. 

Still, he moves fast to find a doctor. 

She comes to look, touches the edges of John’s gaping cuts with a gloved finger, and says, “Well, he’s getting blood flow all right.” She looks at his heart rate. She touches John’s hands, checks his toes. They are looking less grey, but not by much, Sherlock thinks. 

“I’ll send someone in here to stitch him up,” she says, and leaves. 

An intern comes to do it, with shaking hands, Sherlock notes. None of them like to lean too close to John’s mouth, just in case. John doesn’t react though, not even to the sensation of the needle being dragged through his flesh. Sherlock keeps a close eye on his brainwaves, but he’s feeling no pain. The stitches are rudimentary, nowhere near as well done as they would do on a living person, but they’ll hold. They don’t know if he might heal, after all. If he ever will. 

Not long after that John’s mix of sedatives runs out, and the doctor sent to replace them looks at him, checks that his ties are secure, and turns to Sherlock, looking serious. “I think it’s time to go without.” 

Sherlock nods. 

She unhooks the empty bag from John’s IV, and doesn’t replace it. “Press the button if there’s any change.” Sherlock knows very well what kind of change she’s expecting. She sounds as if she is attempting to be sympathetic in advance. 

They haven’t tried this with anyone as far gone as John yet. Sherlock moves his chair closer to John’s bed. Takes out his phone, thinks about texting Mycroft, but then he has nothing to say. His fingers type, “ _Just discontinued sedation. SH._ ” anyway and he hits send before he can think too much about his apparent need to talk to _Mycroft_ , of all people. 

He gets a reply quickly. “ _Keep me informed. MH._ ”

The next hours drag more than all the previous ones combined. Sherlock feels sick with the tension of watching John for every minute twitch, for every change in his breathing pattern, in his brainwaves. The waves get broader, and deeper. Suggestive of REM-sleep, more than heavy sedation. John twitches his toes, once, and Sherlock nearly jumps out of his chair. 

Another one of Mycroft’s goons comes into the room. He wisely doesn’t come too close, simply puts a plate with a croissant, fresh orange juice and a small espresso down on a chair in the corner and leaves. Sherlock rolls his eyes. _Not in the mood for a continental breakfast, Mycroft._ He does take the croissant eventually, pulls it apart between his fingers and tries to eat a couple of bites. It tastes like cardboard. The crumbs stick to his sweaty fingertips. He wipes his hands on his trousers. 

John takes a loud, whistling inhale, and Sherlock looks up sharply. John’s eyes are moving underneath his eyelids. He looks like he’s dreaming. 

John’s hand twitches, next. 

Sherlock eyes the button. Should he call someone? Then again, what are they going to do? He stays seated, and looks between John’s brainwaves, running gentle spikes now, and John’s face. He’s moving his head back and forth as if he’s dreaming, or having a nightmare, resisting something. His mouth opens, and he makes a long, low sound.

Sherlock doesn’t think about it, leans forward and takes John’s hand. John’s fingers are familiar to touch by now; he’s done it hundreds of times. John’s skin is soft and feels paper-thin, his calluses have disappeared from disuse. His joints are stiff. His fingers unnaturally cold, still. It feels like holding the hand of a hundred-year old. 

Sherlock swallows, “John.” His voice sounds off in the large, high room. Strangled. 

“John.” Sherlock tries again, feeling as if it is costing him more energy than it should, to say the simple word. 

After a minute, John groans, long and low. Whether it’s in reply to his call, Sherlock doesn’t know, but John’s brainwaves are changing, wavering up and down, moving all over the map. 

“John,” Sherlock says again, and studies the brainwaves carefully. John’s definitely reacting to something. “Wake up.” 

John groans, loudly. Then moves his arms and legs randomly, completely uncoordinated, it’s lucky the restraints are there or he would either hit Sherlock or himself in the face. 

“John,” Sherlock says, firmly, _calming_ , he thinks, “John, it’s all right.” He holds onto John’s hand, and squeezes it tightly. “You’re fine, you’re... all right.” It’s ridiculous, of course, John is far from all right, and Sherlock hates the senseless lie of it, but it’s all he can think to say. 

John lets out a piteous sound, his mouth opening widely, pulling against the stitches. Some blood appears over them again, he’s going to open his wounds if he keeps on groaning and pulling his face like that, can’t he feel it? 

John thrashes on the bed, seems to tense every muscle, and then lets go again, falling back with a thump. 

“John,” Sherlock tries again. “Calm down, and wake up. Open your eyes, John.” 

The door behind him opens, nurse doing her rounds, Sherlock doesn’t even look at her but he can hear her muted gasp when she sees that John is moving and her “I’ll get the doctor.” She runs off. 

“John,” he tries again. John makes another uncoordinated flail with his limbs, but then he squeezes his hand, in a short, hard motion, and lets go. Sherlock breathes, excitement building in his stomach. He could have done that purposefully. 

“John,” Sherlock tries to speak as slow and clear as he can. “If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.” 

John moves his other hand first, and balls it onto a loose fist. Then his left leg shifts and his knee pushes up the covers. Then he, deliberately or not Sherlock can’t be sure, squeezes his hand. Once. 

And then again. His eyes remain closed, but he has a frown of concentration on his face, he’s trying, he’s trying to be heard. 

Sherlock feels shaky with relief. “Okay, that’s good. I can feel you.” 

Sherlock breathes out, _keep it simple, tell him the facts, first_. “You were bitten by a patient and infected. We found a cure.” The doctor takes that moment to make her entrance, but Sherlock doesn’t even look up. “You are waking up now, you are in a hospital.”

John drops his hand on the bed, and swallows thickly. He moves his head again, back and forth. Can’t he open his eyes? He groans, low and grumbling, he’s trying to talk, Sherlock thinks, but all it does is pull at the wounds on his lips. The sounds he’s making are terrifying, rising in volume, just a long “uuuuugggghhhh!” 

“John,” the doctor says. “Are you in pain?” 

John feels around blindly for Sherlock’s hand again, and Sherlock supplies it immediately. John grabs it and squeezes, surprisingly hard. He groans again, nearly wails. He does pull some stitches, and blood drips from his lips, down his neck, onto the sheets. 

“Okay,” the doctor says, “We’ll give you some more sedation, and try again in a bit, yeah?” She doesn’t wait for his reply, just empties an injection into John’s IV. He groans again, but it’s fading already. 

The doctor eyes him uncertainly, but Sherlock doesn’t talk to her, simply keeps John’s hand in his. It was fine. 

He was right. _He was right all along._ John is still in there. 

 

\---

 

_Day 111_

Sherlock doesn’t truly know what he did, bringing John home, until it’s too late. 

John cries, moans, and screams at an impressive volume all through the night. He starts chewing on his lips, his teeth pull them apart into deep gaps. He bites off part of his own tongue. He looks monstrous, he looks hungry, he looks nothing like _John_. 

And Sherlock doesn’t know how to stop him. 

Sherlock puts a washcloth in John’s mouth to keep him from biting. Tries to speak to him. To read out loud. He tries playing music, he tries shouting. He spends all night and all day with John, looking at him, helplessly trying to shush him. 

Eventually he uses sedatives and injects John, innumerably relieved when he suddenly slows down. When he relaxes. Sherlock falls asleep sitting in the corner. 

After that he puts him on a regular schedule of medication. It’ll damage John’s liver and kidneys in time, but then the infection is currently doing much worse things to the rest of him, so maybe it doesn’t matter. 

Sherlock increases the temperature in the room when he reads that blood flow needs to be stimulated, otherwise John’s skin and extremities will start to rot. He keeps the room as hot as he can. He dresses John in winter layers. Every eight hours, he rubs his hands and feet for him with a warming oil.

He doesn’t sleep much, always on the floor next to John. He does as much research as possible, only leaves John for trips to the university science library, and samples from the morgue. His stomach constantly turns with worry. He moves his mattress up there. Ignores all phone calls and messages. 

He’s taken John’s case, and he’ll keep on working at it. For however long it’ll take. 

 

_Day 174_

Sherlock gets used to John, in a way. He gets used to the sounds he makes, to the way he moves. He learns to anticipate his lunges and bites. 

Sherlock sits, just out of reach of his snapping teeth, and reads out loud, in case some of it does get through to him. Science textbooks, immunology, physiology. He plays his violin. He even gets the TV up there, and turns on movies and chat shows.

The research shows progress, slowly, but Sherlock’s not sure how long he’ll be able to do this. _Keep John alive._

Mycroft starts coming by more often, bringing food, looking as if he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He refuses to sit on the floor after the first couple of times, so Sherlock pushes John’s chair from the living room up the stairs, and puts it in the corner. It has the result of making John’s room very crowded, especially with the constant mess of books and files. 

Mycroft brings highly confidential research. He throws suspicious looks in John’s direction every time he so much as groans, but he seems willing to leave the topic of what he truly thinks about keeping John alive alone. He’s trying to advance the research in whatever way he can, Sherlock knows, but at the same time the government is burning them, now. They have programs encouraging people to give their relatives and friends up to be destroyed. Mycroft tells him everything the British government knows about the disease, the CDC, the Chinese and Koreans. They talk, argue, plan, divide and conquer on the files. It’s the most they’ve said to each other since childhood. They’re as informed as possible, and still it’s not enough. 

Mrs. Hudson is the only other person to come up regularly, she averts her eyes and tuts, whenever she sees John. Still she knits him socks, warm, woollen ones that Sherlock puts on John’s feet carefully. 

She tries to talk to him, about John. Tells him about death, and letting go, and _that it’s the way it works, Sherlock. You love someone as much as you can because you know it’s not forever_. Sherlock throws a plate at the wall. Then books. 

It was supposed to be much, much longer than this. 

John was supposed to outlive him. John was supposed to go grey, and gain a bit of a comfortable belly and laughter lines in his face, and they’d be silly old men, together. There was so much still to do, they weren’t done yet, it’s not over. 

It can’t be. 

 

_Day 179_

Maybe he gets used to John too much. 

Sherlock needs to keep the room as warm as possible, so he sleeps in his underwear more often than not, a simple sheet as cover. 

He wakes up hard regularly, that’s nothing new, his body wanting a release he has no desire to indulge in. Much as usual, he ignores it. Sometimes he walks down to the bathroom, and takes care of it in the shower. 

But then Sherlock washes John and spends a little too much time with his washcloth _there_. He pulls back John’s foreskin and washes underneath, and John grows half-hard in his hand. The first time it happens Sherlock flushes, lets him go quickly, and ignores the area for the rest of the time. 

The next time he simply finishes washing John, dries him, and puts him back into a new, clean pain of underwear. 

It’s just a physical reaction, Sherlock knows. Still the feeling of John growing hard in his hand stays with him, enough that he gets a hot shot of arousal whenever he thinks of it. 

It happens again, too. 

They never did anything of that sort. 

John isn’t gay, Sherlock knows that. So he pushes it aside, except for those few moments where he washes John. Where he hauls him out of the bath, naked body against his, and can feel his erection against his hip. Where he touches John, dries him off. 

Where he wants to keep on holding on, pull him close, pretend that he wants this, too. 

 

_Day 225_

It’s a slow, around-the-clock rhythm of care, being there for John. It’s claustrophobic; everything is condensed into that one, crowded room. Hot, like boiling. Heartbeat pressing on his temples. 

The mattress on the floor is still there, but Sherlock doesn’t use it often anymore. He ties John into his straightjacket at night, careful not to impede blood flow, of course, pushes him down on the bed to his side, and wraps a blanket around him, so he can’t move upright again. Then lies behind him, locks his legs with his, and holds him - selfishly - throughout the night.

John groans and struggles all night long, but Sherlock’s always careful his teeth can’t come near him. He needs it. Needs to feel the strength of John’s arms and back against him. The sense that he’s not dead. 

Sherlock’s sure Mycroft can read it in the wrinkles on the sheets, when he comes by. He doesn’t say anything, though. 

Mycroft forces him to eat, and drink, and shower. Shakes his head at him. Awkwardly holds him, once, when Sherlock grabs the warmth of him, so different from John’s unwilling touch. Mycroft’s voice is the only one he hears besides John’s constant groaning for weeks. 

Mrs. Hudson doesn’t like to come up and see John like this anymore. Sometimes she will, and say something from the other side of the door. Asks how he’s doing. If he needs anything. Sherlock usually ignores her. 

He thinks about killing John, then killing himself. Give John an overdose of the sedatives and then take enough himself. Or shoot him, but that seems too brutal, somehow. He doesn’t want to see John any more ripped apart than he already is. 

Or... He could let John do what he wants. Let him bite him. He could kiss John, then. He could hold him close, the way he so desperately wants. He could bite him back; they could maul each other on a bed of blood.

It almost sounds like a good idea.

 

\---

 

_Now_

John’s going to be out of it for several hours again, Sherlock knows that, still he’s ill at ease doing even as much as pulling his chair back towards the wall. He doesn’t want to leave John for a single second, not when they’re this close. 

Once some of the racing in his chest slows down, he texts Mycroft, not certain how to word what happened. “ _Regained consciousness momentarily, responded to basic request. In pain. SH._ ”

Mycroft replies, “ _I remember the feeling vividly myself, but pain equals sensation, be patient. MH._ ” 

Sherlock feels comforted by it despite himself. Mycroft has been through this, for once he actually knows what he is talking about. Mycroft is the sign that this will work. That Sherlock’s going to get John back. 

An hour later he receives another hospital tray from a male nurse, who glances at the way Sherlock’s still holding John’s hand and gives him a compassionate look. Sherlock doesn’t care what he’s thinking. What anyone is. He’s responsible for John; he’s guarding John’s body until he can take care of it himself again. So whatever relationship people might assume they have, it would be less than what this is. John is _everything_. 

John is out for six hours before it starts again. 

Base waves, getting higher. His legs shifting, slowly. His hands moving. 

Sherlock’s own hand is feeling numb, having been in John’s for this long. He rubs it, and touches John again. Talks to him. A couple minutes in, John squeezes back, very slowly and weakly, but deliberately. Sherlock grins. 

“John,” he says, quietly. “Hello.” It takes a moment, but John squeezes again. Sherlock stays still. 

Maybe if he can wake up slowly, it will be less traumatic. 

John moves his other hand up and down. His feet pull against his restraints in a deliberate way, first one, then the other. His brain waves are spiking, but less frequently than last time. He opens his mouth, and groans, nothing recognisable, just a guttural sound. 

“Open your eyes?” Sherlock asks, because, like last time, it’s almost as if John has forgotten that they’re there, he’s just moving his mouth, grappling for some sort of sound. John’s eyes flutter, and yes, he’s opening them, but as he does, his eyes roll back into his head. He closes them, and tries again. He’s obviously struggling but _listening_ , he can understand him, which is so amazing it makes him feel near-delirious with possibility. Sherlock keeps on talking, stupid things, like “Yes, John. You’re doing great. Come on, you can.” And “Nearly there.” Words he can’t believe are rolling from his lips, but he doesn’t care, because it _works_. John is focusing, he’s moving consciously, he’s trying to connect. 

After a couple of minutes, John looks around the room wildly, _disorientation_? And then, with a twitch of his head, focuses on Sherlock. Sherlock is still holding his hand. He can see John’s gaze wander down, and look at it. He squeezes, gently. John looks up. 

Their gaze connects, and John’s eyes wander over his face. Eyes cloudy, but pupils reactive, he’s obviously able to see. Sherlock’s hand is sweating in John’s, please, _please_... 

And then John’s eyes settle into something familiar, something confused, still, but there. 

John knows who he is.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. (John)

 

 

John wakes up in a world of muted sounds and lights. 

He knows he’s lying down. He has a general idea that there is a mattress beneath him, restraints on his wrists and ankles, and that there are people talking over his head. But he doesn’t know what about, or who, or why. It feels as if he’s stuck in a cinema, watching a film where the plot has passed him by, and he’s not sure if he should care, still, or just close his eyes and wait until it’s over. 

He might just have done that, if it wasn’t for Sherlock. Sherlock, insisting that he opens his eyes. Saying his name, over and over again. Squeezing his hand to wake him up, asking for a reaction. It’s tiring, but like a stone thrown in a lake that movement spreads throughout the rest of him, and gets him conscious enough to respond in some way or other, just to take the edge of worry away from Sherlock’s voice. 

John spends days waking up and falling back again, wavering between nothingness and a vague panic. He has the idea that he might be repeating himself, over and over. Something’s wrong. Something’s _wrong_. 

Sherlock is insistent, too. He’s always there, touching him, calling his name. 

But John can’t keep his eyes open for more than a couple of minutes. He can’t move up, or to his sides. He can’t feel his own skin, or the stiffness of his muscles, or all the other things he should be feeling. His lips pull back, awkwardly, as if they’re numb, every time he tries to speak. His mouth feels… raw. The nurses use antiseptic on it, and the smell is distracting, it nearly burns going into his nostrils all day long. John’s aching to touch his lips, and find out what happened. 

He can tell there’s so much more than what Sherlock’s saying. So much more than Sherlock’s careful voice repeating “They found a cure.” 

John can’t move his hands more than a bit off the bed. It’s hard making them do what he wants, as well. He tries Morse code, and when that doesn’t work - his hands shake too much - pointing his finger, and tracing some simple signs in the air. But it’s so difficult, so slow-going, so tiring. He points towards the general direction of his face and makes a question mark in the air, _what the fuck is wrong with me?_ and Sherlock says “You have stitches.” 

John looks at his restraints, pulls on them, question mark again, and Sherlock looks away, mumbles something unclear. But not why, or what happened, it’s enough to make John want to thrash against the restraints, to look away from Sherlock, think about _better_ and _somewhere else_ and _I guess I’ll sleep then, if you’d rather_. 

Sherlock keeps on _looking_ at him, too. Keeps on holding eye contact with something so hesitant behind his eyes that it makes John wonder what exactly he isn’t saying. 

The next time the doctor comes in, Sherlock pleads his case for him. “He wants his restraints removed.” 

She eyes him critically. “No, I wouldn’t recommend it, he’s still moving too uncontrollably.” 

John writes in the air, as well as he can with his wrist strapped to the bed, “!”. 

Which makes her look at him, at least. “Doctor Watson, you’ll throw yourself off the bed if I remove them.” She’s speaking slowly and loudly. As if he is a child, or some sort of extraordinarily thick foreigner. It makes him _want_ to throw himself off the bed. 

Sherlock says, “I am responsible for him. If he falls off, I will pick him up again. Remove the restrains.”

He sounds nothing like he used to, John thinks. Which, with a flicker of contentment, makes him realise that he remembers Sherlock, loud and proud and not caring what anyone thought. He’s nothing like that version now, though. He’s not polite, but he sounds accepting. He seems to agree with her that it’s an absolute possibility that John will fall off, but that he’s willing to deal with it. 

It makes John feel something funny. 

The doctor sighs, she’s obviously none too happy to do it, but she takes out a key, and removes the restraints. When she’s done the last one, she eyes him for a long, uncomfortable moment, then turns around and leaves. 

John makes sure to go easy. Uses his right hand to go up to his face. “Stitches,” Sherlock offers again, as if he wouldn’t remember. 

Maybe Sherlock has said it dozens of times before, and he truly doesn’t remember, John thinks. But at least he does this time. He feels them, as careful as he can. Touches his cheek, _haven’t shaved in a while_. His nose. His skin feels numb. He moves his hand down, and bangs into the pump. Right. That’s there, too. 

Sherlock is looking at him intently - ready to jump in if he does something stupid. John reaches for Sherlock’s hand, and he takes it immediately, unquestioningly, then pushes his hand towards the control for the bed. 

Sherlock gets what he wants and gives it to him. It’s hard to manoeuvre, the buttons are small and hitting them just right is much more difficult than John imagined. It takes all his focus and long minutes to make his fingers go there and not push past. He can tell that Sherlock wants to help, that he’s maybe thinking that giving him the remote was a bad idea, but John holds onto it stubbornly, and when the bed finally rises up, it feels like triumph. _Whatever you might think, I am not handicapped._

He smiles, not sure if his mouth is even doing what it’s supposed to. 

But Sherlock smiles back.

It’s something. 

 

\---

 

_Day 29_

John hears about the infection from Sally, and then on TV, just like everyone else. 

It makes him feel powerless most of all. He understands it before Sherlock does, perhaps, that there’s nothing to _do_ when there is no cure. Nothing to prevent massive numbers of people from dying. 

And everyone worries. Mrs. Hudson, every patient he sees, everyone who at all knows that he’s a doctor asks him how bad it’s going to get, how they can stay healthy, whether they’re going to die from this. They’re all valid questions but the fact is that John has no idea. They didn’t cover this disease in medical school. He doesn’t know anything more than they do. 

He gets files with instructions sent from the NHS: how to diagnose an infected, who to call, what to do. They’re fairly basic guidelines, which tells him that they don’t know that much, either. 

The first time John actually diagnoses it himself it’s in a six-year old, got bitten in school. John hopes it’s meningitis, and yes, that’s what it’s come to, that they _hope_ for a deadly brain infection in a child. It’s not. The kid seizes, he doesn’t have a heartbeat for a while, so John has no choice but to separate him into the storage-closet turned quarantine room, and call in a team. 

It’s only the beginning. There are lists of symptoms pretty much constantly aired on TV, so plenty of people come by with a cold, or the flu, or some other harmless infection, or sometimes nothing at all, convinced that they’re about to die. Most of them John simply gives the same talk, it’s fine, you’re fine, don’t worry, go home. 

But sometimes, and then more and more often, they’re right. 

John instructs the reception staff to check people’s temperature as soon as they come in, so he can separate the likely cases from the rest. And where in the first week one a day was an exception, four, five or more becomes an average per day fast. He doesn’t know what it is that makes people come to their GP instead of going straight to the hospital with a large bite and a fever of forty-one degrees, but he doesn’t try to discourage anyone. They need to be seen, that’s what’s important. John knows that he’s on the front line, easily reachable, that practices like his are important to protect the general population. 

But it becomes unmanageable fast. 

The quarantine team comes by three times a day, but it’s not enough. John has people turning in his treatment room, in the waiting room, in the toilets, once. It’s dangerous for everyone involved. Every time they treat one he makes everyone disinfect their hands, he wears a mask all day now, not sure if that’s overly cautious, or nowhere near cautious enough. 

It’s hard to explain to Sherlock that he’s really, truly needed now, too. It’s different from when he was just treating the sniffles all day long. He can’t simply leave, even if there is a very nice murder on. He barely has time to check his mobile during the day. 

 

\---

 

_Now_

The time in the hospital stretches out into endless, dull days. 

John doesn’t have the coordination to type on a phone, or to use the tablet Sherlock got him, other than swipe at it. He can write in shaky, blocky handwriting, but it’s too tiring to do much more than a couple words. He tries to make his mind work again, but he’s often hazy, it’s difficult to focus. Time seems to flow in strange moments. Days flutter past. 

Five months. It’s hard to imagine that he was out for that long, all the things that he has missed out on, to know that that chunk of time is just _gone_. 

But there’s more than that gone. John looks at his body, and doesn’t recognise it. It looks like someone else’s, someone older than him, someone with thin, muscle-less arms and legs. He doesn’t know where the dark, extensive bruises come from. The cuts and bites. 

People are talking around the fact that he bit his own tongue off and, most likely, ate it. 

His hair is long, he can feel it brush his ears when he shakes his head. It falls into his eyes as well, annoyingly so. 

Sherlock says, “I didn’t want to cut it yet.” 

It gets to be exhausting, after a while, to have Sherlock there all the time. Looking at him as if he’ll get better right this second. As if he’s expected to _do_ something somehow. John writes him to ‘GO HOME - SLEEP,’ and ‘CASE?’, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to want to go. If it was up to him he’d stay the whole day, every day, apparently, which is kind of... well, uncomfortable. 

He also insists on massaging his hands and feet, which is just plain odd. 

Sherlock keeps on talking, too, tries to bring him up to date on everything, but of course him being Sherlock that means he talks about scientific breakthroughs and papers until John tunes out and dozes. 

John, annoyingly, is left guessing at who else they know is infected, or what the last months were even like, for him. Even Mycroft’s infection gets only a passing mention from Sherlock, and it takes days before John realises that Mycroft’s actually only a couple of floors away, recovering right now as well. 

Mycroft comes by, after that, and that’s truly weird. The first time he walks in it’s with a Zimmer frame, his face lined with fatigue and irritation at having to use the thing, Sherlock moving out of the chair to let him sit down. He’s wearing slippers and silk pyjamas and a dressing gown. He’s looking very strange, so pale and obviously changed, his skin a dull shade of grey. But John mainly recognises the frustration, at having to walk like that. At having to be so much _less_. 

He’s nice, though. As opposed to Sherlock, who just looks over his shoulder and guesses, Mycroft patiently waits for John to write questions, even if it takes painful minutes.

He brings a book, at times, and just comes over to read. 

John doesn’t know if he does it because Sherlock asked him to, but he doesn’t mind the company. 

Once he’s discharged Mycroft keeps on coming by to talk to Sherlock about new regulations, or any new research. Sherlock adding in comments, the both of them pouring over files and laptops, close enough to the bed so that John can follow along if he wants to. Not that he always can, but it’s nice to see them getting along, actually. 

Mycroft _looks_ like he was infected, still, but he’s talking like he used to. He seems confident, exactly the way John remembers him. While John himself can barely stand up. Then Mycroft’s using a cane and back into his regular suits and a week later he’s walking unassisted, and John gets that his own recovery is going to be nowhere that fast. 

John gets surgery on his face and tongue to fix the nerve damage where he _chewed on himself_. They tape the wounds shut, but healing is going to be a problem. John only half listens, face fucked up forever, he doesn’t have the energy to care about it, but Sherlock looks… sad. 

After that it’s physical therapy. Fine motor control, building up the strength of his legs, grinding, tiring physical exercises, day after day. 

It’s an almost-familiar song-and-dance of long, excruciating recovery but the difference is that this time they don’t seem to be terribly sure on what his goals should be, or how far he’s going to go. When he can work up the mental energy, John wonders if he’s going to be severely handicapped for life. If he’s ever going to be able to button up his own shirt again, or tie his own shoes, or say his own name. What he’ll do when he’s not. What Sherlock will. 

And, at night, when he can’t sleep... whether he really wants to live like this. 

He still can’t speak other than some guttural sounds and sighs. Sherlock gets him an app on his tablet, _sign language for beginners_ , and John wants to throw the tablet off the bed. Only he can barely lift it, so he doesn’t, and he knows Sherlock’s right. 

Doesn’t mean he likes it, though. 

One of his doctors asks whether she can write a paper on him, and Sherlock snaps at her, “He’s not an _experiment_.” 

Truth is, John knows that he is. 

And he’s not the only one. Sometimes he can hear screaming, groaning, weeping coming from the corridor. The treatment is not always successful, apparently. Or some of them don’t want to come back. 

He _is_ getting better, every step forward is a genuine medical miracle, he knows that, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Any less tiring, less slow or painful. At times John reminds himself, _they could have burned me instead_ , staring at the mirror, trying to find something there beneath the gaping scars that he recognises. 

Sometimes, when struggling to sit up, to turn a page, or hit a button, to dress himself, to do something so small and minimal that it’s ridiculous that he can’t, he thinks, darkly, _maybe they should have_. 

 

\---

 

_Day 52_

A month in, they start shutting down local GPs, and John’s asked to help open a treatment clinic by St. Pancras.

There are army tents set right on Granary Square, which feels a bit surreal the first time he sees them. He can see the necessity of separating the potentially infected as soon as possible, but he was only just there, running after some criminal, darting around the fountains. John looks at the long lines of people, fear clouding their eyes, and thinks _it was never supposed to be like this_. 

With the new clinic, seeing five infected a day becomes two hundred. 

John’s hardly alone, there are plenty of qualified doctors and nurses of course, but it has nothing of the easy flow being a GP did, nor the deep camaraderie of the army. These are city doctors, stressed, overworked, and yes, scared out of their minds. They run twelve-hour shifts, do the exact same tests again and again, and deliver news that no one wants to hear. They deal with people brought in by the police in handcuffs, some gunned down already, with the most heart-breaking scenarios possible. 

A new Mum comes in with her baby, she infected, he isn’t. She sobs horribly when they separate the two, but they have to, if he’s not infected yet, she’d bite him as soon as she turns. And maybe that’s the true fear if it, the edge they’re all fighting. As soon as it gets them, they’re no longer themselves. No thought, just mindless, horrifying terror. 

John gets why some people pray, when they see it. He doesn’t believe in possession, but if he did, it would look an awful lot like this. 

And he knows it’s not safe, working there. He knows that he’s too close to it, that the number of people getting infected every day is too large to keep on top of, and that their supplies are running short. He knows that they’re taking risks they can’t afford. That he’s playing with his own life, choosing to diagnose infected, but there is nothing else to do. There is no way he can give it up, say goodbye to it all and go run around with Sherlock all day. 

He wants to, sometimes. 

He has nightmares about it, constantly. In his mind he’s gotten infected a dozen different ways already. John wakes up with images of growling and groaning, tearing Sherlock apart. He reasons with himself about it, too. Looking at it logically, what are the chances he’ll get through another month of this? Another six months? 

But then he knows that the only way they might beat this is if there are doctors out there, trying to treat it, trying to cure it. If there are clinics just like this one. 

So he makes sure his room is well organised, and that there is nothing unnecessary around for Sherlock to have to clean up, after. He locks the door behind him every night when he goes to sleep, knowing that if he turns in the night he probably won’t have the motor skills to open it again, so then at least Sherlock will hear the stumbling, and know that something’s wrong. 

At least Sherlock will be safe. 

 

\---

 

_Now_

Thirty-two days after waking up, John is released from the treatment centre, and he can go home. 

Back to Baker Street. 

Sherlock gets them a ride in one of Mycroft’s black town cars, with an armed escort and everything, and it’s almost thrilling, to see that door again. Sherlock needs to help him up the stairs, but John can do it. Slowly, of course, and he’s feeling like hell by the time he’s up the seventeen steps, but he’s proud, for a second. He made it _home_. 

He sinks down on the sofa, settles the Union Jack pillow behind his back and looks around. It’s cleaner than he remembers. And there are no case files lying around. Not even a single experiment John can see. It’s kind of cold, and it feels a bit empty, in a way, and he’s aware that it’s him, that’s not the same. That he’s slow and weak and clumsy, now. 

But there’s Mrs. Hudson, looking at him with so much joy that John makes himself grunt a hello.

“You’re looking so much better, dear,” she notes with obvious relief, and John wonders when she’s seen him. But it’s not the time to ask, because she has biscuits and tea and a half year’s worth of gossip to catch him up on. 

Sherlock makes a face at the biscuits, _probably told her I can’t eat them yet but she got them out anyway_ , John thinks. He accepts the tea she hands him even though he can’t drink it, either, because it feels right, holding it between his hands. The warm weight of it, his fingers spanning the mug. He likes watching the steam rise in curls, and smelling the blend while he listens to Mrs. Hudson’s voice, but he can only hold it up for a minute or so. 

Sherlock watches him from the corner of his eye, and takes the mug from him when it starts wobbling. 

John hates that he knew to look for it. 

After Mrs. Hudson leaves, ‘you rest up, now, dear!’ John is back to looking around the living room. Not much at all has changed. One morning in early May he was here, in this kitchen. And then it all went black until he woke up in October, and now it’s November and the seasons have gone on without him, but he’s right back to where he was. _Home_ , John thinks again, but it still doesn’t feel entirely familiar. 

Especially since Sherlock still has something so _guilty_ in his eyes. 

John takes his tablet, and writes, “I WAS HERE. INFECTED.” He doesn’t know how that can be, but both Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft hinted at it. 

The flash of discomfort clouding Sherlock’s face is easy to see. “Yes.” 

John can imagine it better than he’d like to. Himself, sitting here, groaning and drooling, acting like some animal.

He wonders whether he asked Sherlock to let him die. He feels like he did, at one point. Like he should have, because who in their right mind would have kept him alive anyway? 

Sherlock looks at him, so full of _something_ that John feels uncomfortable, again. What does he want? What does he want him to say? Does he want him to thank him for saving his life - because he’s not sure he can do that right now. 

He signs, “Sleep.” 

Sherlock nods, and goes to get blankets for the sofa. 

John can’t make it up to his own room yet and they both know it. Everything - walking, moving in any controlled way, is an enormous, laborious task. Sherlock finishes making the sofa, helps him up and onto it, and leaves to his own room, looking oddly dejected. 

John lies down, but he doesn’t sleep. Other questions are playing on his mind now. Sherlock must have not simply locked him in his room. He must have had someone keep an eye on him. Mrs. Hudson? 

Thinking on, it starts to feel uncomfortable. It there wasn’t a facility, if there weren’t doctors and nurses, then who took care of him, exactly? John remembers Sherlock’s comment about his hair, _I didn’t want to cut it, yet_. The way he unquestioningly assumed that it was _his_ job. The way he seems so used to being by his side for hours. The way he’s so quiet and calm, now, nowhere near as manic as he remembers. 

It all amounts to an uneasy conclusion.

 _I never wanted you to take care of me_ , John thinks, looking at Sherlock’s closed door. He never, ever wanted to be that, to Sherlock. A burden. Something you can’t shake off out of guilt. Just like what he’ll be now. 

John feels nauseous thinking it over. 

 

\---

 

_Day 63_

Sometimes, tentatively, Sherlock makes dinner. 

It makes sense, nearly all take-away places are closed now, it’s that or beans on toast every night. Sherlock’s a surprisingly good cook, too, better than John is, really, but he doesn’t seem to like it when he points it out. Oddly enough, this seems to be the only thing that he doesn’t want to be complimented on, so John simply accepts it when it’s there. And it’s there more and more. 

John works long hours, he’s often not home until ten or later, but Sherlock will always wait for him. 

It feels nice to know that he does. Not just the food. John misses life with Sherlock like an ache sometimes, the cases, the running around being strange and clever, the adrenalin. So to come home to him, and know that that’s still there, at least, it’s good. 

There’s not that many cases right now anyway, John knows. Sherlock is bored more often than not. Maybe that’s why he’s getting him on his best behaviour when he comes home at night, or why it’s easier - he doesn’t have to listen to him whine all day. Maybe that’s why he seems even brighter, even more attractive than before. Limited exposure. 

But then again, there’s still pig heads in the fridge, and a large intestine ( _in a container, John!_ ) in the oven, so it’s not as if that much has changed. 

Sherlock’s still an arse, of course. He says things like, “Your work can’t be more important than me, honestly John.” And “Why would they need you, they have plenty of doctors, I need you more.” Which is horrible, but also kind of… nice? It makes John laugh anyway. 

John spends a lot of time thinking about what Sherlock means, when he says that he needs him. 

He wonders what it is that he could say back. 

 

\---

 

_Now_

Life in Baker Street is hard. 

In the hospital it was one small victory after another, sitting up, signing Sherlock’s name for the first time, standing, dressing himself. It was Sherlock’s attention on him, his smiles, his palpable gladness at having him back. But now it’s obvious that John’s _not_ back, obvious that he is not the same, and worse, that he is never going to be the same again. 

John can do some rudimentary things like making tea, or wash Sherlock’s dishes, but that’s about it, and it takes three times as long as it did before. Every single action takes planning, and care, and he fucking hates it. He’s back to being utterly useless and he remembers the feeling a little too well from last time. It’s a familiar, overwhelming refrain of _nothing, you’re nothing, so why stay around, why be here if there’s nothing you’re good for._

Sherlock doesn’t even talk about taking cases; he just lingers around the edge of John’s vision, all day, every day, ready to help. After a while that’s annoying enough to make John blow up. To scream to _go find himself a fucking criminal instead of staring at him_ , and of course he can’t even articulate enough for Sherlock to understand what he’s yelling but John doesn’t need words to be angry. He signs, “LEAVE ME ALONE” and ‘GO” until Sherlock does. 

He’s not proud of that. 

John feels scared of himself, at times. 

He wonders how much medication he would need to skip before he would turn again. Or what might happen if it stops working. They don’t know, do they? They have no idea, it’s all still a test phase, he’s a medical experiment. 

And Sherlock... John knows he’s working it out on him and that he’s being unfairly angry, but Sherlock has changed. In John’s memory Sherlock used to _be_ Baker Street, he used to dominate these rooms, sprawling in the sofa, commenting on one clever thing or another, playing music, filling it up with his moods, his mind, his voice. 

But not anymore. 

Sherlock just moves around him, quietly, when he’s in a mood. He won’t even do him the courtesy of having strops of his own, or doing anything annoying at all, it’s as if he’s holding it all back and John hates it. If only he’d raise his fucking voice in return. If only he’d act human, instead of this stoic, caring facade that he’s been playing at for weeks. John never wanted Sherlock to be a saint. He never wanted him to be anything at all. 

And frankly, knowing that Sherlock helped change his clothes and washed him for the last so many months isn’t helping either. John remembers wanting to impress him. He remembers hoping for... well. Things that are never going to happen now. He should be glad that Sherlock’s even still around, John knows. That he’s willing to have him here, at least, but it’s a bitter truth to face, all the things that have changed between them, all the ways that he’s less. It’s never going to be the same again. 

Lestrade comes over, but that makes John feel even more morose once he’s left. He’s so busy, head of the police force now; they don’t have enough people anymore. John promises to make Sherlock take a case soon, but Lestrade looks doubtful about it. 

Molly comes by, and John takes ten minutes of fumbling and stumbling to make her a cup of tea, and she looks on with such pity, speaks so slowly, as if he’s gotten stupid somehow, it makes him want to push her out of the door instantly. 

Mrs Hudson tries, she watches telly with him and tells him dull, prattling stories, but his mind is often far away. 

The first time he goes up to his room it’s mainly to try the stairs, and to see if he can move back there soon. It’s obviously been cleaned, his bed has been made, and the sheets have been washed, Mrs. Hudson’s doing, probably. 

It feels less unlived in that he would have expected. 

There’s an odd hole in the wall near his bed as well that he’s sure wasn’t there before, as if someone attached something to the wall. Notches and scratches on the headboard of his bed that he doesn’t remember being there. Long scratches on the floor as well, as if something heavy was dragged and stood here for a while. 

As he sits down on the bed, John gets the distinct feeling of having sat in that bed for long, long hours. Days even. Being wrapped up. And the more he thinks about it, tries to focus on what it is, what happened here... He needs to get out. 

He lifts himself off the bed, opens the door, leaves it open behind him and stumbles down the stairs again, his breaths coming quick and painful in his chest. 

He can’t get away from it. 

Can’t leave Baker Street, because there’s little to disguise his slow gait, the colour of his skin, the ghastly scars around his lips. There’s a good chance a cop might take out their gun and shoot him through the head if they see him coming. He can’t speak to prove that he’s not an infected. He’ll _never_ be able to go on a case with Sherlock again. 

And every time John looks at Sherlock, he wonders why he bothered to bring him back. 

If he’s regretting that he did. 

 

\---

 

_Day 81_

John’s just worked a fourteen hour shift diagnosing infected; he’s tired enough his bones hurt.

But Sherlock made him promise to be home at eight, so he is home, ready to eat and fall asleep. But there’s no food waiting, no nothing, only a Sherlock who jumps up, and says to follow him. John doesn’t even have time to take off his coat, and they’re going. And no, Sherlock won’t reply to any enquiries as to where they’re going. No, he won’t say anything at all. 

John sighs. “If this is just us going to the morgue to look at an interesting murder victim, I’m going to kill you myself.” 

He doesn’t mean it, of course, not completely. It’s only that these things were a lot easier when there were black cabs all over the place. John, together with the rest of London who still has a job, has been doing an awful lot of walking. He’s been thinking about getting a moped. 

Sherlock doesn’t even reply. 

They go on a lengthy trek, weave through London streets without any reason to at all, as far as John can see. They’re crossing places they’ve been before, but there’s no time to enjoy being out, not really, Sherlock is in a hurry, his coat a blur, always running a couple of steps ahead of him. 

And John can’t turn it off, these days. He can’t be outside without looking at everyone they cross and scanning them for symptoms. 

He knows that they’re in Soho, but it’s only some vague idea in the back of his head, and when they pause at Angelo’s, John still thinks that maybe they’re going for a visit, does he have some crucial information about a case perhaps…?

But when they walk into the restaurant, it’s lit. 

There’s a table set for two, the only one in the whole restaurant actually, with a single candle in the middle. 

John stops, and stares at Sherlock, _wait, is this...?_ But Sherlock’s already in the process of taking off his coat and scarf. He seems annoyed somehow. 

John doesn’t have time to think about it, because Angelo comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron, and smiles widely. “Happy birthday, John!” He takes his hand and shakes it, shakes Sherlock’s, saying “Anything for my friends,” and “I will make you your favourites!” Then retreats back to the kitchen, leaving them. 

Sherlock is fiddling with the menu, pretending to read it, but glancing at him at the same time to catch his reaction. 

John takes off his coat, and sits across from Sherlock, then says, “You know my birthday was a month ago, right?” John’s not entirely sure that Sherlock does, in fact, know. He knows Sherlock’s in January, but they’ve never celebrated either of them. 

But Sherlock simply shrugs, “Does it matter?” 

John looks around, at the restaurant where they went that very first night, and so many times since. He can hear Angelo softly singing to himself in the kitchen, and there’s a wave of garlic and herbs coming their way. The candle flutters in some errant breeze. There’s Sherlock, sitting across from him. 

“No, of course not,” John says and smiles. 

Sherlock smiles back. 

 

\---

 

_Now_

December brings snow, there’s a layer of it, thin, covering the ground and street. John glances through the windows at Baker Street below. It’ll probably melt in a matter of hours, maybe days.

He can’t stop looking at it. 

Eventually he signs to Sherlock, “Go outside?” aware it’s dangerous, still. 

Sherlock looks him over. John knows what he’s thinking, that he can’t move fast enough if there’s trouble. But he’s been cooped up here for so long and if Sherlock’s with him the risk will be minimal, John thinks. 

Sherlock takes his gun, which is fairly rare for him. John takes his own as well, despite being clumsy with it now he’s not about to let Sherlock get bitten because he’s longing for _a stroll_. He could still shoot one if he had to, John thinks. 

They both bundle up. John takes care to pull his scarf high over his face and to take his cane. He does need it to walk, especially if it’s going to be icy, but more than that it helps at least a little to make him look more generally infirm and less infected. Or he hopes anyway. He needs to be careful to pretend, to play human well enough he passes. 

Walking down the stairs John’s not entirely sure it’s a good idea anymore, _someone will see_ , but when Sherlock opens the door it’s suddenly incredibly bright, the morning sun shining on the freshly-fallen snow, blue sky, John can feel himself take a deep breath. Oh, that’s nice. He takes his cane in his right hand, and, without really thinking about it, takes Sherlock’s arm with his left. 

Sherlock adjusts his arm, and lets him lean on him. For some reason Sherlock seems rather pleased by it, John can tell, he keeps on glancing at him. Although he can’t fantom why. Being used as support, having a cripple next to him. 

Sherlock leads him on a slow walk towards the park. John’s not entirely sure he can make it there, but it seems doable. 

The snow crunches under their feet. John looks at the tracks they leave, a little fascinated at the evidence of them walking like this, in sync. Four footprints, Sherlock’s shoes slightly larger and smoother than his own, and a round hole for his cane. There are some other tracks on the street, a single bike, several cars and footsteps, but a ridiculously low amount compared to what it would have been a year ago. The street isn’t cleared at all either. London has become a village. 

They meet their first pedestrian soon after, a woman walking her large dog. Or maybe she’s simply walking to work and the dog is protection, John doesn’t know. She glances at them, but does not comment. Sherlock’s left his face free, probably to show to anyone how infection-free and normal they are, John thinks. He just hopes they won’t meet many more people. 

It’s hard to remember how before he would unthinkingly work himself through masses to get on the tube in rush hour, or to get home from the surgery. He’s not sure if he could stand it, now. Every new pair of eyes on him is like an itch underneath his skin. A potential threat. 

They slowly make their way down the street. 

Sherlock’s looking around attentively. John would think he’s looking for infected, but he knows it’s not just that because Sherlock’s eyes linger on walls, on footprints, on trees. This must be a million times worse for him, John thinks. To have a mind that large, that tending towards boredom, and have to sit inside in a flat with him day in, day out. This must be _killing_ Sherlock. John has tried to convince Sherlock to go out more often. It would do him some good, remind him there’s something more out there. Or God, a _case_ again, that would be perfect. But Sherlock refuses. John thinks, furtively, _should push him again_.

They make it to the gates. John’s legs are trembling, his muscles are still weak, and he’s leaning quite a bit of his weight on both Sherlock and his cane, but they’re close. 

Sherlock leads him to the closest bench, brushes off the snow and John slowly, carefully, every fucking muscle hurting when he tries to make it into a controlled descent, sits down. Ah. That feels great. He leans back against the cold bench. Good, at least he made it. 

Sherlock sits down next to him. 

John only has the chance to really look around now; he’d been too focussed on other people and just walking. But the park is gorgeous, as ever. There’s a light layer of snow, a bit more in some spots, against the base of trees, against the sides of the path, where the wind has blown it. There’s a scattering of ducks, in the grass as well as on the water. A single, dirty-looking swan. 

The trees are completely leafless now, bare branches vaguely waving in the wind. It’s icy cold, and there are darker clouds on their left. It’s looking like it’ll snow again. 

Sherlock’s just looking around as well, seemingly calm, his nose and cheeks reddish from the cold. 

Sherlock smiles, briefly, when he catches his eye, then looks away.

John has to search for a while before he can make out a heron, on the far end of the pond, staring at the water. 

There’s a movement on the other side of the park, a human shape, moving quite fast, and John stills. That guy’s not jogging, he’s flat-out running, but in a practiced way, not panic. Odd. He’s slowly moving out of sight, so it can’t be anything coming their way. Infected anywhere? John squints, but he can’t see anything. Maybe the man himself? Trying to get somewhere before it kicks in?

Sherlock follows his eyes, and says, “Training for the Olympics.” 

Really? John’s stunned for a moment. 

He doesn’t doubt Sherlock’s deduction, but he’d somehow completely forgotten that that was even an option, someone running for sport. It can’t be still on now, the Olympics. But someday it’ll be on again, John wagers. It’s not that weird for that guy to keep on training, assuming it’ll be. John’s not sure it’ll ever go back to the way it was exactly, but it seems likely. People will forget eventually, go on with what they knew. It’ll be just like the war years. _The plague years._

John’s not sure if he’ll be there to see it all change for the better, but hey. John looks to the side. _Sherlock will._ He’ll get to see the world come back together again. 

John shivers. His muscles are cooling down, he knows, it’ll be hard to walk back if he waits much longer. 

Sherlock helps him up, and they walk back, slowly. John’s legs feel as if they are about to buckle, but he manages, leaning into Sherlock’s side. Enjoying it a bit, leaning into him. The clouds catch up with them, and just as they are nearly home it starts snowing again, lightly. 

In front of the door John stills. Looks up, and sees the dizzying wave of snow coming down to earth; he can feel it falling on his face, little pinpricks of cold and wet. Unbidden, and for no reason at all, he feels quite happy. _Look at that._

He can see Sherlock glance questioningly from the corner of his eye, so John signs, “Good.” 

Sherlock nods, and looks away quickly, but John can see the hint of a smile he’s trying to hide. 

Good. 

 

\---

 

_Day 105_

When it finally happens, when John finally does get infected a couple of months in, it feels like a long chain of dominoes falling one by one before his eyes. 

A patient gets out of the restraints. She was tied too hurriedly in the first place. 

John is leaning a little too close. He’s used to dealing with them by now, and he’s tired. Not careful enough. He can still see the humanity in her, and he’s trying to calm her down. It’s only a graze of teeth to his forearm, not a real bite, but John _knows_ , feeling the pulsing of it, the heat. He knows he’s going to die.

He lingers long enough to make sure the patient is restrained properly, and then joins the queue of infected on their way to St. Bart’s. 

Nothing to it. 

John is angry that he got bitten, yes. Angry at everything for this to happen _now_. Because expecting something is still very far from actually having to live through it. And a lot of the calm he told himself that he would feel, a lot of the stoic composure, goes out of the window when he realises how stupid he’s been. No, it wasn’t supposed to happen today, dammit. Not yet, not right now. 

But it’s always going to be ‘not right now’, John knows. That’s what they all say, what they all tell him. “I didn’t want to go today.” In the end, all anyone wants is more time. But there isn’t. 

John has regrets. That’s painfully obvious as soon as Sherlock walks in, so upset he’s shaking, so worried, and all John can think is ‘I’ve never even hugged him.’ Best friend of his life, and he hasn’t. 

He hasn’t told him, either. John doesn’t know what exactly there is to tell, but whatever that huge, warm feeling is wandering between them. That. It’s never been something that needed to be discussed; it’s been something that they both were content with. And it’s better to leave some things unsaid, isn’t it? It’s better to accept the unavoidable, and let Sherlock move on, let him go with a good memory or two. 

But then, of course, Sherlock pulls the stunt of being amazing. Wonderfully funny. He’s sweet, and kind, right when it matters. Sherlock keeps him company in what he knows very well are John’s last hours of conscious thought, and they’re the best John could have imagined. 

They laugh, so much that he can feel it in his stomach, so much that there are tears in the corners of his eyes. 

Sherlock has to be making some of these stories up, John knows, but he almost doesn’t want to know what is his imagination and what is real because it’s all so incredible, all so specifically him. 

Sherlock gives him the gift of himself, at the very end, and John loves him even more for it. 

And as the world goes dark, with nothing left to lose, John tries to tell him. He tries to grab on to him, to touch his chest, feel his heart through the ridiculous suit he’s wearing, at least once. 

In his mind, John tells Sherlock that he loves him. He tells him that he’s the best friend he’s ever had, that knowing him made his life into something new and brilliant and worth it, oh so worth it. He’s not sure how much he’s saying out loud and what’s just implied, but it hardly matters, John can see in Sherlock’s face that he knows. That he feels it, too. They were meant to grow old together. 

John remembers Sherlock’s hand in his, looking up into his eyes, seeing his smile, and his tears. He remembers thinking _nothing’s perfect, but close enough_. 

He remembers his eyes falling shut, his body seizing. 

And then nothing.

 

\---

 

_Now_

John practices sign language every day. 

It’s as much to have something to do and to make the days go by faster, as it is to be able to talk. His physical therapist says it’s good for his fine motor skills as well. He is slowly getting some more control over his hands. 

The next step will be speech therapy, and it’s about time, it’s fucking annoying not to be able to speak well enough to be understood. John still forgets he can’t - actually, tries to talk at least once a day. Intelligibly curses when he bumps into the sofa. Hums songs. He can almost laugh, still. Sigh, make disapproving sounds. Enough to annoy Sherlock, which is nice. 

Sherlock’s in the shower when his phone, lying on the living room table, rings. John eyes it, but doesn’t try to answer. 

It buzzes next, new message, so John takes it, and checks the screen. Mycroft. He, clumsily, presses the button to read it. “ _Sherlock, at least look into it. MH._ ” 

John puts it aside, and tries the sign for “Murder,” just to amuse himself. 

When Sherlock comes out of the bathroom in his robe, towelling his hair, John holds up his phone, and hands it to him. Sherlock checks, and dismisses it. 

It buzzes again. So John takes it again, looks at it, whatever it is, it’s more interesting than trying to finger-spell “Rigor mortis”. Lestrade, this time. “ _Look, take John along on Skype for all I care, we need you on this one, Sherlock._ ” 

John eyes his tablet. 

That’s actually not a bad idea? That could work; they’ve done it before. John shows the message to Sherlock and signs, “Yes, do it.” 

John takes his tablet, hands it to Sherlock, and points towards the Skype button. “Go, please.” He can use Sherlock’s laptop here at home, since it’s heavier. Sherlock doesn’t say no immediately, which is a near victory. So John signs once more ‘please’, and Sherlock gives in, he texts Mycroft and Lestrade, gets dressed, and leaves the flat. _Voluntarily_. 

John’s glad for him, mainly, really it’s well past time that he’s back to doing cases. He’s only a little jealous that he’s too useless to come along now. Only a bit annoyed at the sudden quiet of the flat. 

But he does sit down and follow Sherlock on Skype, surprised to see that he’s opened the connection immediately. Not that there’s much yet, Sherlock is in one of Mycroft’s cars, the image slightly shaking as the car turns. Sherlock doesn’t talk to him but he does raise the tablet and shows him the view out of the car window, which is interesting. London looks deserted. Hardly any people around. They get stopped at a military checkpoint because there’s an envoy with infected passing by. John can see some, far away, their hands reaching out, pulling the restraints, mouths grotesquely opening and closing. He looks away. 

A good fifteen minutes of driving later Sherlock says, his voice startling in the rustle of the connection, “We’re here.” 

They pull up at a house in Kensington, roped off by the police. 

Sherlock gets out and is walking again, the screen bouncing slightly, and then Lestrade shows up, John can see a flash of his legs, then hear his voice, “Oh, you did take him along?”

Sherlock angles the screen towards him so he can say hello, and describe what happened. It’s the second one they’ve found like this. Infected and killed. 

Which is technically not illegal, since an infected isn’t human, after all. 

Lestrade’s voice catches slightly at that sentiment. 

Yeah. John knows. 

Sherlock doesn’t comment on it, instead takes the screen with him, and angles it towards the corpse. She’s barely out of her teens, lying on her back. Ligature marks on her arms. She was restrained until she turned, then shot. 

Sherlock mumbles about decomposition rates versus infection. It’s something that John’s had too much recent personal experience with to really want to do any in-depth thinking about, but he doesn’t mind listening to the interested note that has crept into Sherlock’s voice. 

The killer is infecting them to cover up his tracks. 

Sherlock lets the tablet trail over her, her clothes, the wound, her face. No bite marks. 

Then looks back at John in the screen, his face huge. John has his notebook lying on his knees, pen ready, and writes “INJECTION SITE?” He holds it up.

Sherlock nods, takes his magnifying glass, and starts looking. And John, despite how disturbing this is, or maybe, fuck it, because of it, can feel something shift. This is interesting, it’s a puzzle, it’s something to do and _he’s being helpful_. 

When Sherlock looks back John’s ready with his notebook, to write “HOW LONG MISSING?” 

Lestrade sees and pipes up from somewhere behind Sherlock with, “That’s the bit we can’t figure out, she was in school yesterday, all fine, passed a temperature scan and everything...”

John frowns, thinks, _is there any way to expedite the infection?_ He can see Sherlock pacing wildly, his movements lively and more exuberant than he’s seen him since he came back. He’s mumbling, “How is it so fast, how?”

John writes, “IMMUNO-COMPR?” 

And something flashes behind Sherlock’s eyes. He yells, “ _Scar!_ ” and then asks Lestrade, “She’s a transplant recipient?” 

When Lestrade answers something first confused, then affirmative, Sherlock turns back to the tablet, grins and says, “Ah, obvious!” then starts running, the screen bouncing up and down. 

John, back in Baker Street, smiles too. 

Sherlock’s back into the car and instructing the driver towards a hospital to arrest a surgeon, and John follows along, the whole time thinking to himself, _I’ve fucking missed this_. 

And it’s not the same, it’s not, it can’t be. 

But it’s close enough.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. (Mycroft)

 

 

It is somewhat of a precarious endeavour, returning to work as an infected. Mycroft’s reputation precedes him, of course, _The Ice Man_ has become _The Dead Man_. 

They may call him what they wish. 

Mycroft has made no effort to conceal or deny his treatment, but that doesn’t keep people from treating him radically differently now that he’s back. Returning from the dead is still a novel thing, and he’s walking a fine line between being somewhat admired (‘if anyone could do it, he could,’ a younger agent whispers after he’s passed by) and blatantly despised and mistrusted on the mere grounds that he is still alive. 

He knows that there’s talk of having him removed. 

Mycroft can remind them of who he is with a single sentence, of course, but that’s not always enough to convince a colleague of his worth, when all they’re seeing is the pale skin. He doesn’t need to be liked, but his word needs to be trusted beyond reproach. 

Some would love to see him fail, and this is the perfect excuse. 

Mycroft knows enough people who want him in his position because there is no one else who can pull the strings that he can, who can tread that line, and he makes certain to remind them of that fact, subtly or otherwise. He hasn’t played this dirty in years, but in the end, his influence wins out. 

He re-familiarises himself with it all quickly, the game of twisted words and power plays, and pushes himself forward in body and mind until he’s on firmer footing again. 

He proves that he is still the same man, even if it is partly untrue. 

 

\---

 

_Day 181_

It’s not always the infected that pose the problem anymore. 

The resistance gets more intense by the day. Their central message has fallen apart into several factions, everything from left-leaning action groups to hard, ethics-based counter-government terrorism. 

An official from the World Health Organisation gets abducted, infected and left in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. The woman is smart enough to call the quarantine team on herself, but it’s enough to startle those high up. Next is the Secretary of State for Defence. He gets taken from his bed at night, and they don’t see him again until he’s found wandering the streets, beyond coherence. 

It’s hard to determine who exactly is behind this, or to make any significant arrests with their usual information networks at such a diminished capacity. People are falling away faster than they can replace them. 

Several infection attempts are made on the prime minister. To show that he’s not immune, or because they feel he deserves it, Mycroft doesn’t know what they are trying to accomplish, exactly. It’s not as if the man is much more than a figure head anyway, if he’s out, he’ll simply be replaced by someone else, someone more suitable perhaps. Someone less inclined to hiding in his country retreat after doing television interviews, Mycroft thinks grimly. 

An agent who works in the office manages to get past the temperature scans before he turns, but sets the alarms off on the way out, and decides to run back in and lock himself into an office. Needless to say, it takes less than ten minutes before several agents break down the door and gun him down. 

Mycroft is still not fond of that type of gun-use, and it was a colleague, as well. There are stains on the carpet that are declared a bio-hazard, and they have to move the whole office a couple of doors down. 

Anthea comes in half an hour late one morning, fills out a ‘shots fired’ report, and simply states “My mother.” 

Mycroft would give her the day off, if he thought that she’d accept it. But a lot of them are working as a way to stay above it all, and Anthea is one of them. 

They run into a whole group of infected on their next trip out of the city, and with the numbers that they’re burning them at now that can hardly be a coincidence. There’s not that many left to roam around. They have enough security along to handle it this time, although even Mycroft himself takes a couple of shots from the passenger window. The next day a grainy video of them shooting from a large, unmarked black town car at ‘unarmed citizens’ is put online. It doesn’t seem to matter to them that they were infected. 

Mycroft learns to take extreme care every time he leaves the office. He never walks out on foot, only leaves in the back of a car and only takes routes that have been pre-cleared. He realises that it’s paranoid, acting like this, but with a third of MI6 dead within a month, taking precautions like these seems necessary. 

He emails and texts Sherlock often, sends him every minute development in research. Sherlock responds to it, but categorically refuses to look into cases, although Mycroft tries to get him interested. He might be able to find who is behind these action groups, if he’d try. Or even a nice locked room mystery or a serial killer would be great to get him out of the house, Mycroft thinks. Sadly, he can’t manufacture these things out of thin air, or at least not without using more resources than would be responsible at this time. 

Mycroft makes it a priority to get as many researchers as possible into contact with each other, even has some evacuated from overrun areas so that they can continue their work right here in London. As a gesture towards Sherlock and his fervent hopes for John, but also because it still is a valid area of inquiry. Not everyone agrees that it’s their best use of resources, but the latest developments have shown that it could be very, very useful for them to be able to show that they’re tirelessly looking for a cure at least, Mycroft argues. Some of his more closed-minded colleagues disagree. 

Some discourse among the more conservative members has been casually gleeful behind doors, even. It is mainly the lower classes that are getting infected. The poor, the weak, the elderly and disabled. Everyone too slow to run, everyone whose finances are forcing them to continue to work in public places. Some see this as a purge more than a plague. They’re idiots, of course, but influential idiots. They talk about the redistribution of government support. Ensuring the safety of the rich, and letting the disease ‘run its natural course’ - meaning letting the rest infect themselves into an early grave. They talk about the population pressure being eased, now. About the city being more liveable, once this will have passed. It’s disconcerting to even have to follow that kind of rhetoric. They all seem to conveniently forget that they’re human themselves, and perfectly susceptible to infection. That they’re _burning_ these people. Every day. 

At times, Mycroft is glad of the protests. Not the violent actions, no, but of the online petitions, of Anonymous hacking them, it’s always better to have a visible force working against them. A focus for all of the negativity and critical voices. It’s always better when they can hear them loud and clear, than when they can’t hear them at all.

 

\---

 

_Now_

Mycroft gets a text from Sherlock, a bit after midnight, reading, “ _Can’t sleep. SH._ ”

He raises his eyebrows, and, careful not to jostle the large amount of files spread out around him, replies, “ _I don’t see what you expect me to do about that, Sherlock. MH._ ” 

Then, knowing it will annoy him, “ _I believe counting sheep is traditional? MH._ ”

“ _Can’t sleep when I can’t hear him. SH._ ” 

Ah. Of course, Sherlock has slept in John’s room for months, later next to his hospital bed. John must have moved back to his old room, then. Mycroft changes his mental vision of Sherlock lying awake in his bed to him lying on the sofa with the doors open, trying to catch a single sound to let him know that John is still alive, going out of his mind with worry. With longing. 

Mycroft has seen Sherlock’s happiness at having John back slowly turn into something yearning, over the last few weeks. Sherlock seemed content to let it flow into a friendship before, but after John has been infected... the amount of care he bestowed on him, and to now have to change again, it must be jarring. 

Mycroft puts his file to the side, and types, “ _Then I suggest that you tell John that you wish to sleep in his bed. MH._ ” There’s only so long he can drag this out, surely it’s better to know whether John is interested? 

John can be rather touchy about anything that he perceives as being gay, Mycroft recalls. Which is a rather absurd attitude for a grown man really, no one is asking him to define himself quite so often. And so loudly. Mycroft has always assumed that it’s a case of ‘the gentleman doth protest too much,’ but there are certain people that are so deep in the closet that no amount of self-awareness will make them come out, he knows. 

Mycroft himself never quite saw the issue. Other than what Sherlock might think, he has _entertained_ both men and women in the past. But only if he felt that it would be worth it to go through the effort of it all, which he hasn’t in the last few years. These types of human interactions are so very tiresome, and for such a small moment of release, no, he would rather simply manage it himself - skilfully, of course - and be done with it. 

Sherlock was always more of a romantic. Oddly repressed about sex, always uncomfortable around the subject, shy, easily teased. More into the grander ideas, Sherlock. Bravery and sacrifice, slaying demons and rescuing maidens. Or well, in this case, _John_ , Mycroft thinks. It was obvious from the beginning that Sherlock is irrevocably, deeply in awe of John, and by now the word love feels rather meagre to describe the sacrifices that he has made for the man. 

It’s only that John seems to insist on either ignoring the facts, or rationalising them into a friendship the likes of which Mycroft certainly has never seen. Complete devotion was never quite on the agenda in any he has had the chance to observe. Then again, he can hardly call himself an expert, base human interaction seems to be Sherlock’s thing more and more these last years. Mycroft doesn’t blame him for that; Sherlock has always suffered more under the loneliness of intellect than he has. 

Perhaps because he was born second, and he has never truly been alone. 

Sherlock doesn’t reply straight away, so Mycroft puts his mobile aside. After a minute of waiting he works on, but his eyes stray to his phone occasionally, wondering about what is happening in Baker Street right now. Whether Sherlock will give it a try. 

 

\---

 

_Day 203_

The focus on research and experimentation finally starts showing some results. 

They can’t cure the infection or reverse any damage, so it’s useless for John at this stage. But in the case of a new bite, if they get there fast enough, there is a combination of antiviral cocktails and beta blockers available that can give the subject more time before losing all mental facilities. 

Mycroft doesn’t see much in terms of a practical application yet, and in fact they decide not to make it public, nor offer it to the community at large. Making someone turn slower means a longer incubation phase, longer treatment and hospital stays, it is hardly going to make things easier or financially more viable. But it is a first step in understanding the disease, so they are all changing their views about what it might mean in the long term. It could become something similar to HIV a couple of years down the line, an infection that they can manage for years before it becomes life threatening. Or even a lifetime. 

They get some doses in at the office, in a glass case, to be broken in case of emergency. Change the protocols, if an agent or official is infected and reached within the first hour, they will receive the option of treatment. Someone up high is probably having grand visions of making the prime minister go down slowly and heroically, Mycroft thinks. Privately, he thinks it’s about time, the man is useless. 

Somehow the resistance gets wind of it. Of course, they spin the tale of a _cure_ that’s being generated in secret and kept solely for government use. 

They up the security, tread even lighter than before, but the threats are clear. Next are car bombs.

Anthea forgets some files in the car, goes back for them midday, and as she opens the door handle the movement of it sets it off. 

Mycroft receives word while he’s in a meeting, and after that minute-by-minute updates on her condition that he insists on receiving no matter what he is doing. He visits her in the hospital that same night. She greets him from a bed, and Mycroft thinks that for the first time since all of this has started, he is grateful. 

Anthea blew her eardrums. She lost three fingers of her right hand, and has burns over both hands and her face. But she _lives_. 

It gets taken as a bit of a victory by the rest of the agents as well. They are so used to the fact that every news means infection and death that compared to it, this seems minor. Everyone is just glad that she’ll survive, Mycroft included. 

Mycroft forces her to take some time off, but Anthea’s back four days later, saying, “It’s driving me crazy sitting at home.” 

She can’t write by hand anymore, but then that was rarely a requirement of the job anyway. She becomes just as proficient texting with seven fingers as she was with ten. She learns to shoot with her left, and covers her scars with makeup. Every car they use gets scanned first. They get sniffer dogs as well by the car park. 

Mycroft still visits Sherlock whenever he has a chance. 

Life goes on. 

But of course it couldn’t forever. 

 

_Day 231_

Mycroft is exiting 10 Downing Street, accompanied by two agents. It’s early morning, they went over the budget for military and medical spending once again, opting to do it now when the streets are relatively clear, and the danger low. 

This type of political manoeuvring isn’t within Mycroft’s interests, he finds it rather tedious in fact. But the minister who would usually handle this sort of thing was infected weeks ago, his replacement died yesterday, and any other agent with the right clearance level is overworked as it is. So Mycroft agreed to take his place for the opportunity to meet some of the new faces, and subtly size them up. Strengths and weaknesses, ultimate alliances, these details never cease to be important. A large percentage of his connections are dying, so he finds it essential to stay on top of it and create new ones. 

Mycroft wasn’t supposed to be there, so no one could have known that he was going to be. He is rather certain that they don’t even know who he is, exiting there. He has taken great care in not having his image out there, has had footage and pictures disappeared for this exact purpose for years, and he has become even more careful now. Only the people who need to know, truly know who he is, and how important he is. 

So in that moment, he is only an MI6 agent or advisor with an escort, but apparently, that is enough. 

Two people, clad in black, jump them. There are shots being fired, Mycroft can’t tell by whom, guns drawn, shouting on both sides, but their attackers are fast. Too fast. The agent on his left is down, the other one fires back but the shot goes wide, then she stumbles as well and she’s down, gurgling blood. 

Mycroft doesn’t have his gun on him, he’s turning back to the door, but there’s one descending on him. And then a short, sharp pain to his arm. The man shows him the syringe as he pulls it out, laughs, and runs. 

All of that took less than twenty seconds, Mycroft thinks, in a daze. 

Agents and bodyguards stream out through the door, having heard the gunshots, new shots are being fired. They run after the surviving attacker, but Mycroft sinks down to the ground and grabs his arm. He knows it pierced the skin. He knows. 

He’s panicked, yes, heartbeat racing, breaths on the edge of hyperventilation, but his mind is his greatest weapon and it doesn’t leave him, not now. Mycroft takes off his coat, and pulls his braces off and from under his waistcoat with a speed that somewhere in the back of his mind surprises even him. 

An agent, seeing what he is attempting to do, takes them from him, loops them around his arm and tightens it to the point of pain. There are cases of people beating the infection like this, if they’re fast enough. Only a handful, certainly, but it is not impossible. 

Mycroft takes his phone out of his pocket, his hand perfectly level, he sees, and presses through to Anthea. He doesn’t say anything unnecessary, just breathes, “Infection by injection in the upper arm. Blood flow cut off after approximately forty seconds. Amputation advisable?” 

It could be done, Mycroft thinks coldly, his mind calculating percentages. If they can minimise the blood loss, if there is a chance, he would be willing to undergo it. A field amputation. He eyes the bodyguards currently shielding him, military experience, all of them. There are people here who can, and who will. If it might save him from... It would be worth it. 

Anthea doesn’t reply, there’s only the rustle when she grabs another phone, already connecting to their infection specialists on call, Mycroft knows. “Injection of infected blood or saliva?” 

Mycroft thinks, recalls the moment precisely, he saw, he knows, but he can’t remember. What colour was it? What colour? He looks around, where did it fall? The agent still holding his makeshift tourniquet points, and someone else picks the syringe up. “Blood or saliva? Mycroft asks, hearing Anthea in the background relaying all the information she has. 

“Saliva,” the agent says, showing it to him. Mycroft repeats it for Anthea, who repeats it again, but the tone of her voice is enough. He knows. 

“It will have entered the bloodstream near-instantaneously. They suggest saving the limb.” 

Mycroft nods to the agent, who releases the tourniquet, sending a hot, painful rush of blood through his arm. He breathes, momentarily struggles to find a perfect semblance of calm. 

Anthea says, “On my way, sir.” He can hear her moving fast, heels clicking, running through the hallway, probably. He can hear the breaking of glass. 

The people around him have already taken a step back. “Go inside,” Mycroft says calmly. “All of you.” There might be more out there. None of them disobey him. 

So Mycroft sits and waits, on the steps of Downing Street, surrounded by three corpses, on a grey morning, and faces the reality that he is going to die. 

He can feel the cold of the stone step under his arse. The bruise already forming where the agent pulled the braces so tight. Maybe a faint ache in his muscle, from the force with which the injection hit. But nothing of the disease. Not yet. 

He can see a tree, in stark relief to the sky. Some leaves that have fallen, and are rotting yellow and brown on the road. Most are still on the tree. It’s September.

After a minute or so one bodyguard comes back out, and stands just to his left, probably Anthea’s orders. He isn’t looking at him but he’s holding his gun, Mycroft sees. He briefly considers asking for it. But no, that would be ludicrous, there is a lot he still needs to do. He has his funeral arranged already, of course, his will, he has had that in order for years. Whatever time that he has left should be spent dealing with crucial issues. The ones that will affect the most. He makes lists in his mind, orders his goals in order of importance and attainability. 

A car pulls up minutes later, Anthea jumping out, already holding the antiviral cocktail in her hand, drawn into a syringe. 

Mycroft rolls up his sleeve, and she takes his arm. The stumps where her fingers used to be, scars still red and raised, touch his skin as she searches for a vein. She injects him with her left hand, then looks him in the eye, and says, calmly, “It will give you time, sir.” 

_More time to die._ “Indeed,” Mycroft says. 

He goes with her in the car, and they drive to St. Bart’s, where they can pump him full of more medication, and create a timeline for how long they can keep him alive, Anthea says. 

Mycroft makes them stop on the way so he can throw up on the side of the road. 

 

\---

 

 _Now_

Forty-five minutes after Sherlock’s texts there’s a sound downstairs. Mycroft sits up straight and reaches for his gun on the bedside table, but he recognises it as a key being turned in the lock, and the deadbolts retracting as someone types in the codes. There are only two people who have those codes, and no matter the nature of the emergency, Anthea would call first. 

Mycroft sighs, and gets up to dress. He is not at all comfortable with the thought of Sherlock walking into his bedroom while he’s in his underwear, even if it is hidden by the covers. 

Sherlock walks up the stairs in the dark and opens the door to his bedroom quietly, but as soon as he sees the bedside light he seems relieved to find him awake. 

“Yes?” Mycroft says, trying to sound as annoyed as possible while standing next to his bed in half-unbuttoned silk pyjamas. 

Sherlock doesn’t appear fazed, just moves closer. He does look tired. Exhausted, in fact. He looks at him, eyes glossy with some emotion. “He’s not gay.”

 _Oh dear lord._ Mycroft stands up straighter. “John? What did he say to you?” 

Sherlock frowns, “Nothing, he’s not gay.” 

So he didn’t even tell him. Great. Fond of drama, Sherlock, apparently also when it’s _entirely unfounded_. Mycroft lowers himself down on the bed. “And what exactly did you think I would have to add to that statement at,” he checks his bedside clock, “two in the morning?” 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft pulls the blankets back over his legs, and settles into the pillows. “There is nothing that I can tell you here besides the obvious fact that if you wish to know, you shall have to ask him.”

Sherlock sits down on the side of the bed, near Mycroft’s legs. Then lets himself fall back onto the mattress with an obnoxious thump. 

Mycroft looks at him, slightly exasperated.

Mycroft always privately thought of his extra bedroom as ‘Sherlock’s room’, even though Sherlock hasn’t slept there in years and before that extremely sporadically. But it is always available to him, if he wants some space from John. Sherlock knows that, as well. “Do you want to stay here tonight?”

“Hm?” Sherlock looks at the ceiling, reply dampened by obvious fatigue. 

Mycroft wonders how long it’s been since he’s slept. 

Then, with a sigh, takes a pillow from behind his back, and hands it to Sherlock, feeling oddly domestic doing so. His little brother, lying on the foot of his bed. It’s almost as if Sherlock’s five again, and having nightmares. Of course that illusion is shattered as soon as Sherlock lets out a frustrated sigh. 

Mycroft demonstratively takes a file again, and starts reading. Russian intelligence, nothing to do with the infection, for once. Sherlock is looking at him, he can tell, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. There’s nothing more to say. Mycroft reads on instead. 

It’s silent. Nothing disturbing the silence but the flipping of an occasional page. The shifting of Sherlock’s limbs. Mycroft can hear Sherlock’s breaths even out. 

The next time Mycroft looks at him, he is - incredibly - fast asleep. 

 

\---

 

_Day 235_

Mycroft shows up at the office, a mild hush surrounding him as he walks in. Anthea follows closely behind, her gun visible in the holster under her jacket. He will be under armed guard wherever he goes, now. It’s one of the conditions he agreed to. 

The infection is in his blood, but without a bite site, they’re a little stumped as to predicting how long it will take before it will spread. At best guess, days before he shows symptoms, two weeks or more until the end. 

Mycroft is glad of all the research he did for Sherlock now, because he is intimately acquainted with both the procedures and the department heads at the international research level. He receives the best medical care available, of course, but more than that, he has access to information. File after file of his blood results, reaction time, infection levels, he knows the values and predicted evolution of the disease currently wrecking his body better than most physicians do. 

Perhaps counter-intuitively, knowing that he is about to die makes very little difference in his day-to-day schedule.

Anthea takes over in meetings since some of their colleagues are, understandably, hesitant to have him in the building, let alone in biting distance. Not that they are foolish enough to say that to his face, but it’s plain to see. And it makes sense for Anthea to profile herself as his obvious successor, of course. 

So Mycroft stays at the office, and works through the night the first days. He has plenty of work to do, and simply takes short naps sitting upright, but still they are disturbed by nightmares. Oddly clear visions of what is about to happen to his body, making him feel panicked for several seconds before his rational mind can take over. There is no use in feeling sorrow, or sadness, or fear; he is well aware that this is going to happen whether he dwells on it or not, and those feelings will only serve as a paralytic. So he needs to counteract sentiment, focus on rationality, and work.

More often than not Mycroft’s dreams feature John, as well. The pallor of his dead skin. The clacking of his teeth. The sounds of his saliva. Mycroft has a perfect vision of what it will be like, after all, what he has to look forward to. The next dream he’s in John’s room as well, chained up next to him on the bed, Sherlock taking care of them both. The one after that he’s being burned alive, screaming as the flames reach him, the scent of burned flesh in his nose. 

It’s terrifying. 

Mycroft has his will adjusted to say that he wishes to be euthanised as soon as they are at the point of no return. Anthea signs as his witness and promises him she will see to it, something hard in her eyes. She will kill him herself if necessary, Mycroft thinks. If he gets out of control, she will be there to put a bullet through his head. He is glad of it. 

Mycroft was never one to flee from reality, so he doesn’t. He simply focuses, he tells himself, on what is most crucial, one hour at a time. 

He hasn’t told Sherlock. 

Sherlock texts, asking when he’ll be by again with new research. Or what he actually says is, “ _Corpses are boring when identified only as a factor of x, complain to the Indonesians. SH._ ” 

Mycroft can’t bring himself to reply. 

He can’t. He can’t just simply go by and visit Sherlock either. Not like this. Sherlock will take one look at him, and deduce what is wrong, Mycroft thinks. He doesn’t look infected yet, so it might not be clear at first glance, but Sherlock will be able to tell that he hasn’t slept, that he hasn’t had an appetite, perhaps even that he has undergone a battery of medical tests recently, and it will be easy to extrapolate from there. 

Mainly Mycroft doesn’t want to have to look him in the eye and see what it will do to Sherlock, to come to the realisation that he, too, will die. Like John. That he’ll lose them both. 

At times Mycroft isn’t convinced that Sherlock will either care or notice if he would disappear from one day to the next. 

Other times Mycroft worries that it’ll break him completely. 

Or that he himself will break first. It was always his greatest fear, after all, to lose his mind. Not to be in control of one’s faculties is the danger of vulnerability, of humanity. Mycroft has always armed himself against it. Only now his defences will break down on their own, and there is nothing more he can do against it than what he is already doing. His arms hurt from the multiple injections. His inner elbows are swollen, and starting to infect. His scalp feels itchy from the EEG pads. He has dark bruises on his chest and legs that spread every day, his blood clotting beyond his control, darkening within his veins. Soon, he won’t be able to walk. 

This disease is unique in the sense that it provides a window of time he can spend on closure, which is practical, obviously. Mycroft can sign over responsibility, make certain everyone involved is sufficiently briefed on what is going on. It is also the only reason that he is even allowed inside the building like this, people are aware that this is a necessity, that he has been running the country for far too long to suddenly disappear. Privately he thinks he would have preferred to have been assassinated in a more speedy way, when he does think about it. A dramatic flourish of an ending, instead of a stutter towards the finish line. 

But few men can choose the way their end will come. Mycroft understands the necessity of devotion, of utter focus, and he has always maintained it. 

He is not about to change it now. 

 

_Day 237_

Mycroft is in the seventh day of his treatment, the seventh day of not responding to Sherlock as well, which, looking back, might have been a mistake. He is still mostly symptom-free. He might make it to two-and-a-half weeks, maybe three, his doctors tell him, eagerly. Mycroft despises them for it. But his own moderate annoyance at not knowing exactly when he will turn into something inhuman, falls away completely as Sherlock walks into the room, and all Mycroft can think is, _God, no._

Sherlock hasn’t been inside the MI6 offices since John died, so Mycroft was not expecting him. Anthea let him in, she knows he hasn’t told him yet, but she has never had orders to keep Sherlock away, never truly. But Mycroft wasn’t planning on being alone in a room with him without preparing something to say, and now that it’s here, suddenly the problem is critical. Would saying goodbye be a kindness, truly? 

Mycroft thinks about what John said, in the end. “ _I haven’t, no, I haven’t told him yet..._ ” 

Sherlock eyes him with something of his familiar annoyance, but his face changes slightly as he takes him in. “You look terrible.” Sherlock frowns, and sits himself down on the sofa. 

“It has been a rather trying week.” Mycroft speaks as carefully as he can, stays on the line between a possible truth, and a lie of omission. Sherlock will realise sooner or later, he knows, it might be better if he doesn’t lie outright. 

“Assassinations?” Sherlock’s eyes are still flickering over him, trying to discern the truth. 

“Several,” Mycroft admits. _My own chiefly among them._

Sherlock nods. He seems to accept the explanation. For now. “Any new research?” 

Mycroft motions to the piles of files lying on his desk. “Do you have a preference?” 

“The Luxembourg experiments.” 

Mycroft doesn’t ask how he even knows about those. He selects them, and holds them out, expecting Sherlock to take them. He doesn’t get up himself, of course, that would be out of character. Plus, his knees feel rather weak; there is a chance that he might stumble. But it has the effect of Sherlock getting up, and walking close enough to pull them from his hand. It carries a wave of his scent with it, and Mycroft has to swallow against the sudden rush of water in his mouth. His stomach rumbles loudly. 

Sherlock looks at him. “Bad sushi?” It’s said in his usual half-mocking tone, but something more serious beneath, he can tell that he’s ill. 

Mycroft makes a face suggesting something particularly vile and entirely beneath his dignity. “Something like it.”

He rings for a secretary to bring tea, and the young man brings it stony-faced, places it down in front of Sherlock as fast as he can before hurrying off again. Mycroft eyes Sherlock, but he luckily is already absorbed in the file in front of him. _Will he truly not notice?_ It seems improbable.

It continues like that for the next two hours. Sherlock reads, and Mycroft pretends to be absorbed into files of his own, while eyeing him circumspectly. It is nice to see him, he admits. Seeing him sitting here, alive and well. It feels good. 

It’s only right for Sherlock to outlive him, Mycroft thinks, he is the younger, after all. 

Yet the thought feels wholly uncomfortable, too. Mycroft can feel the spikes of worry he has never been able to suppress run out of control. With him gone Sherlock will be all alone in that room with John, for God knows how much longer before John gives out, and then there will be nothing left. Mycroft’s heart aches for him. Sherlock was supposed to outlive him, yes, but he was supposed to be there until the end of Sherlock, too. To watch over him, and care for him, and of course: love him. 

Sherlock would go to great lengths to deny it, but Mycroft does not see the point in such a senseless exercise. He loves Sherlock, deeply, has from the moment that he knew that he had a brother. 

“How is John?” Mycroft asks, quietly, knowing that that is the one question that Sherlock doesn’t mind answering. The one that he wants to be asked, over and over. 

“His extremities are losing some flexibility, leg tendons stiffening from his lengthened lack of activity, his motions are becoming more repetitive and weaker at an approximate rate of one point seven percent per month.” Sherlock says it while looking at the files in his hands. “His base temperature and heartbeat remain constant, his...” He drones on, a long list of everything that is changing minutely within John’s body, but Mycroft doesn’t have to listen to the details to know the complete picture. Despite Sherlock’s best efforts, John is decaying, but because of Sherlock’s careful interventions he is doing so at a much slower rate than any of the subjects in lab conditions. “...skin flexibility suggests the retention of water has been lowered but it is still at an acceptable level to maintain his kidney function...” John might hang around for years, still. 

“Sherlock...” Mycroft swallows. 

There is so much that he wants to say. So much that he wants to warn him against, and protect him from, and tell him, but he won’t listen, Mycroft knows. It is useless to argue with him, and more than that, he doesn’t want to, not at the very end. “Will you ever let him go?” 

It’s asked with more emotion that he should have, because Sherlock’s eyes shoot up, and drill into his. “No, and I’m not discussing this again.” 

Mycroft nods, and looks away. 

Eventually Sherlock leaves, and Mycroft sits there, alone, wondering if he should let this be Sherlock’s last memory of him then. Spare Sherlock all the rest. He might not appreciate it either way, but death is not about the self, is it. It is those that are left behind that can claim it as an event that shaped them. Mycroft considers his impact on Sherlock’s life, and what his death will do. It won’t release him. It will do nothing but make him feel alone, he fears. 

Mycroft fully expects that there is nothing after this, of course. 

Religion and the afterlife are nothing but tales the dim-witted tell themselves to be less afraid of the dark. To feel as if they have no control over themselves, because they fear control. They fear capability, and power, and the self. Mycroft has never done any of those things, he has always known he was better than everyone else, he never had any use for moral crutches. 

He thinks of the gun, again, ending this before it becomes too unmanageable. Soon then. 

Soon. 

 

\---

 

_Now_

Mycroft leaves at six in the morning, letting Sherlock sleep on in his bed, still somewhat startled by the very fact that Sherlock fell asleep like that. 

It was rather bizarre, to have him there. But not… unpleasant. Mycroft didn’t sleep himself, but he watched him on and off throughout the night, a feeling of warmth gathering in his chest whenever he could hear him sniffle, or turn, or mumble something sleepily. 

He fully expects that it was a singular event driven by Sherlock’s exhaustion and frustration, but for one night, it was rather touching. 

It’s John who texts next, around eight that morning, seems that he finally did figure out his phone, “ _S NOT HOME?_ ” 

Mycroft marvels at the fact that that is text-worthy, these days, John waking up and finding Sherlock gone without an explanation. It used to be that Sherlock was untraceable for days, sometimes for a case, more often because he had no desire to be found. Has he really not left John at all since he’s been back? 

Mycroft answers John dutifully, “ _Accounted for, I expect he will return to Baker Street soon. MH._ ” 

And thinks that Sherlock just needs to have a conversation with John, already. 

John obviously cares for him. Mycroft’s finding it exhausting to watch like this, never mind what it must be like to live it. They’re adults, surely they can work this out, and life is short. If there is anything that they have learned from this last year then it must be that life should be lived now. 

But. Perhaps there is some way he can suggest... 

Mycroft texts, “ _John, are you aware that Sherlock has not been able to sleep at night because he misses your presence? MH._ ” 

 

\---

 

_Day 258_

There is a growing fog in Mycroft’s mind. 

Every day he wakes up slower. With bruises covering most of his limbs now, blood congealed underneath his skin, there to stay. With a hunger that’s echoing inside his chest, gnawing, eating at him. He’s on medication constantly, they’re trying to up the levels, to fight it with harsher and harsher treatments, but he is fading rapidly, and he knows it. 

He outlasted their wildest predictions. Nearly four weeks. Mycroft managed to finish everything that needed to be finished. His tasks are handed over to Anthea now. He has revealed some secrets to her, some pressure points she might find useful, but most he will take to his grave. Mycroft finds it fitting, in a way. He’ll leave his legacy, and go, and the world will turn on. He has confidence in Anthea’s abilities, but she needs to make her own way in order to be respected. He has given her all he can. 

Mycroft barely gets his legs to obey enough to walk, slowly, from the bed to the bathroom. Time has started to run over his mind like a river. He makes achingly simple mental lists, every physical task is stretched out into a dozen separate elements. Move legs. Undress. Take medication out of bottle, put in mouth, swallow.

He runs a hot bath, and lowers himself inside. The next moment he is staring at water slowly running from the tap, one see-through drop after the other, and the water around him is ice cold. 

He dresses, his dark, pin-stripe suit. Red tie. Tiepin from Grandfather, cufflinks he bought himself after his first fieldwork assignment, pocket watch from last year. He forces his mind to focus on the tasks at hand, but it’s like trying to hold sand in his hands. There’s a clock on the mantelpiece, jumping forward without his notice. 

The light flutters around the edges of his eyes in haloes. 

He’s hungry. So hungry. 

Worse than any physical craving Mycroft has ever endured, he wants to _devour_ things. Rip them apart with his teeth. 

There is a raw steak in the fridge. He gets it, sits down with it on a plate in front of him, and tries to use a fork and knife. They scatter out of his useless hands, to the floor. 

The next moment his mouth is dripping with cold, watery blood. 

His cheeks are full, his teeth are ripping and chewing, it’s running in streams over his chin. He spits out the white trims of fat back onto the plate. 

Drifts off staring at the patterns of blood trailing off his fingertips, mixing together with water in slow swirls on the plate. 

Mycroft comes back, focuses enough to wash the plate, throw the butcher’s paper away, clean the table and the counter. _Do not leave this behind, they will know what you did and they will be revolted._

He washes his face, checks his cuffs, brushes his teeth, walks away. 

Then stills, in the hallway, not certain, suddenly, whether he will have gotten the traces of blood off, whether they’re really gone. Emotion is harder to deal with now, _shame_ , when it manages to break through the fog it’s sharp and overwhelming. There is a curious push of tears, something chocking his throat. 

The next moment he is back in front of the sink, brushing his teeth again. 

Mycroft applies cologne. He washes his hands, notices they are red. He wonders how many times he has washed them, by now. Then dries them, finds his coat, puts it on, one arm, other arm, buttons. He counts them to make certain they are all closed. 

He wants to look back at the room, at his house, wonder about forgotten items that might tell things that he does not wish to be known, about clearing the rubbish, about… but there is a flicker of purpose, pushing him on. He cannot spend more time here. 

He is running out of clear thought. 

 

\---

 

_Now_

Mycroft knocks on the door to 221b, and, aware that getting up for John is still difficult, opens it himself. 

It looks very different from when he was here last. The living room is warm, and strewn with papers. There is a map on the wall showing pictures and Sherlock’s handwriting, his latest case most likely - Mycroft squints at it, money laundering, _bit predictable, surely_. 

John is sitting on the sofa, a book spread over his knees, not smiling, exactly, his scars mean that he can’t physically, but his eyes crinkle at the sides regardless. “M,” John signs. Then, “Hello.” 

Mycroft does smile. “Afternoon, John.” 

Sherlock appears instantly, “What are you doing here?” 

“...a simple visit, naturally.” Mycroft says after a short pause. _And perhaps a small thank you would not go amiss._ It is all over Sherlock’s face, after all. “Sleeping well, are we?” 

John snorts, a quick, almost-natural sounding noise. 

Sherlock’s eyes widen, he glances at John, looks away, and flushes somewhat. 

John signs, “Drink?” 

“Tea, Darjeeling if you have it?” Mycroft sits down on the sofa, he brought files for Sherlock if he’s still interested. An entire pile of them, in fact. He takes them out of his briefcase, and puts them on the coffee table with a thump. 

John gets up to make tea, he’s both slow and his movements uneven, Mycroft can see his back in the kitchen, hear the clacking of the mug. 

Mycroft rather enjoys the sign language actually. He doesn’t know if John just assumes that he was able to understand it all along, but he wasn’t, he never had a reason to learn. But when it became obvious that this would be John’s main mode of communication, Mycroft spent an hour or two learning the basics, various easy phrases and words. As John is getting better at it, he occasionally goes back to refresh his memory and learn some additional words. 

Sherlock sits down across from him. 

Mycroft glances at him. Asks, “Happy, I take it?” low enough that John won’t hear. 

Sherlock gives him a small, nearly imperceptible nod before looking down at the files. 

Mycroft does not mind. That’s all he needed to see. 

 

\---

 

_Day 258_

Mycroft steps out of his door. He uses his umbrella for stability. The wood in his hand feels familiar. 

In a couple of steps he is surrounded by armed guards who usher him to a car. 

He would feel a hint of annoyance, if he were capable of doing so. Instead he feels nothing tangible, just clouds of thought that overwhelm him, strings of reasoning untangling until cause and effect are the same thing. Just this moment, just the frailty of a lamppost they pass by, just the harsh flare of the sun in a window. 

He arranged this, Mycroft thinks. Maybe Anthea did. He must have told them where he wished to go. Was it part of his will? He can’t remember. 

They turn into Baker Street, stop. 

The car door opens. One of the guards offers him his hand, but Mycroft ignores it, puts his legs out the car, then uses his umbrella; tip first, to lean forward. He stands there, feet on the pavement, and feels himself weave from one foot to the other. 

In the next moment, is it, the next? There are cracks in the pavement, unfilled and grey. And Sherlock is there. 

Sherlock’s face is hollow, Mycroft thinks. Too thin, _Sherlock, you should eat_. Sherlock’s mouth is moving, he’s upset, he’s saying something to the guards. They reply, and then stand back. Mycroft walks towards him, and Sherlock doesn’t move away. Sherlock has never feared him, Mycroft remembers, his power, none of it. He’s the only one who never has. 

Sherlock takes his arm, and leads him up the stairs. One step. Another. He is good at this, Mycroft thinks with some curiosity, he has done this before, and then, of course. John. Sherlock has done this exact thing before many times by now, _Sherlock knows how to deal with an infected_. The thought hurts. 

Sherlock leads him not to John’s room, too many stairs, but to the living room, sits him down in his own chair. A guarded compliment, perhaps, Mycroft thinks vaguely. That he is allowed here. One last time. 

Sherlock’s eyes move over him. “...working on a cure.” He seems to have some urgency. “They’re weeks away. _Weeks_.” 

Mycroft suddenly snaps his mouth shut. He knows it was open, saliva gathering on his tongue. He stares at the floor. 

Sherlock crouches down in front of him, and awkwardly takes his hand. Mycroft looks down at it, _oh_. He knows that image from in his mind, he thinks. Remembers wanting it, perhaps. Oddly that he cannot remember the when, and why, and where, but this feels right. 

Sherlock’s hand in his. 

He rubs his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles. 

His mind is a cloud of emotions, of regrets and wishes and, “Proud of you,” Mycroft says, and sees Sherlock’s eyes widen.

Sherlock pulls his hand away, he’s talking, his whole body is moving. “…not enough, it’s not enough!” 

Mycroft’s not sure how long he stays. Until Sherlock helps him down the stairs again, next to his side.

At the bottom of the stairs he feels a rush of urgency, last words, last time. “Sherlock,” Mycroft speaks up. He has rehearsed this in his mind, has put it at the entrance of his mind palace, so that he might be able to find it at the very end, even though he finds that he does not need it. It truly is the one thing left he wishes to say. “You know I have always loved you.” 

Sherlock’s face is shattering, his eyes are the brightest hue, watering, oh Sherlock, _oh my brother_. 

One last look, Sherlock’s face hurts to see, it all hurts. Mycroft opens the door by himself, and leaves without looking back again, tries to assemble the last seconds of dignity that he has left into stepping into the car. 

He very carefully does not cry. 

The guards escort him into work.

Anthea is there, but Mycroft cannot focus on her face, on the solid form of her nor her voice. She speaks, but then tapers off as she can tell he can’t process it anymore. 

“Today.” Mycroft says, and he sees her nod, then an odd flash of guilt in her eyes that she’s not guarding now; that she thinks he can’t see, or more likely, that it won’t matter. 

Mycroft walks into his office, then sits behind his desk out of pure habit. He crosses and uncrosses his legs. His jaw is moving, chewing, again. Time rushes past. He looks at the door. It’s closed. He looks again. It’s closed.

In the next moment Anthea is there. A syringe, already drawn. So small. Insignificant. _Dignified_ , Mycroft allows. He’s already past pride, of course. Past decorum. It is well past time to give in to the inevitable. 

She rolls up his sleeve for him. 

He looks at the door again. Closed. 

Anthea is speaking to him, but he does not listen. His mind wants to find something, what? A good memory? Mycroft has none. But he knows… Sherlock’s face. He knows that. Mycroft keeps it in his mind, drags it up, a young Sherlock playing in the garden. Older, moodily reading. Even older still, leaning towards him to pass a file. Running over London’s streets with John in his tow. 

The syringe sits between Anthea’s scarred fingers, for several moments, before she injects him. The needle presses in, _passing the sub derma_.

Sherlock’s hair. His eyes. _Let’s play deductions, Mycroft._

Mycroft can feel the gravity change. Can feel himself falling, face-forward, but can do nothing to stop it. A rush of black and white, a ringing in his ears, rising in intensity, higher, higher. 

The last thing he sees is a side-view of his desk. 

Then nothing. 

 

\---

 

_Now_

John does eventually return with a mug of tea, only half-filled because otherwise it would splash out and burn his hand as he walks. Mycroft smiles graciously, aware of the effort it took to make it. “Thank you.” 

John tilts his head. 

Mycroft looks back at the files. There are concepts of developing a vaccine in British labs. It will be several months before they are at that point, but still he thinks of it with some satisfaction. The prime minister, although he does not know it yet, will announce the news on the one-year anniversary of the infection in London, in less than two weeks. 

Mycroft imagines that there will be celebrating.

It’s not an ‘all ends well’ sort of ending, he assumes. There is a lot to be done, still. The cure is not commonplace yet. The economy needs help, the next election will be entirely unpredictable, and he definitely needs to lobby against this insane assumption that the post-infected are somehow less human. 

Sherlock is reading as well, taking in the good news the research spells out. 

“So how is life with my brother, John?” Mycroft asks, fully aware of the response that such a question will get from the both of them. 

John looks at Sherlock, who is pretending not to have heard. But he’s also angling slightly forward, making certain to see John’s answer, Mycroft notes with a hint of amusement. 

John signs, his eyes sparkling, “Not bored anymore.”

Mycroft laughs. 

A couple more months and there will be no more new cases in the UK. No more unnecessary fear. They will be able to re-build governmental infrastructure, the economy will take years to recover, naturally, but it will. There is a way forward and they are taking it. Slowly, they are winning this war. 

Or, Mycroft thinks, considering his own second chance at life, and watching John and Sherlock’s interaction... perhaps it is more apt to say that they have won. 

They are alive, after all.

 

 

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Coins on My Eyes by Indybaggins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4484396) by [gurkenpflaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gurkenpflaster/pseuds/gurkenpflaster)




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